


The Storyteller

by neck_mole



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: (But Not Really Stalking), Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward First Times, Bad Flirting, Blow Jobs, Canon Related, Complicated Relationships, Drinking, F/F, First Time, Friendship, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Matchmaking, Meeting the Parents, Mental Instability, Mutual Pining, Nobody is Dead, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stalking, Texting, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neck_mole/pseuds/neck_mole
Summary: T.B. Pitch is the uptight, neurotic author of the bestseller, Gravel Road. As of recent, though, he's been plateauing--no new content. Not even a poem.In a desperate reach for inspiration, he travels out to public shops to try to grab onto something to write. It mostly comes to dead ends, until he stumbles upon a new bookshop that sports a friendly, somewhat familiar owner, a comforting lounge area, and a distinctly handsome employee who performs for Saturday Story Time. Whoever this is seems more like a book character than an actual person.There, it hits him. Or, rather, smiles at him.-Alternate Universe where Baz writes Carry On based off his interactions with Simon.





	1. i'm disposable, aren't i?

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to start this fic off with a quick comment on this whole... everything. first, i'd like to send out a huge thanks to my beta, Andrea (@ravenclawbaz on tumblr). she's sat through so much of my bullshit, wrote hilarious commentary in the notes, and nearly killed me each time she saw one of my goddamn misplaced semicolons. so all the love and appreciation for her, because this fic (and many of my other fics) would be shit without her editing.
> 
> i also want to add my own little thoughts. this fic, overall, had been an adventure. i've been writing it since october. at least three allnighters, countless hours, and so many rereads. there was a point, maybe a month ago, where i nearly deleted half the fic, but now, here we are. nearly 50k--my longest fic to date--and a playlist of 59 songs to go along with it (see the end notes for the link). i've laughed at it. i've cried to it. i've put all my energy into this for months, and now it's out here.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this adventure as much as i enjoyed writing it. xox anï

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours come and go as I stay, watching people pass by and leaving my book untouched. By the time the day starts setting, the 4pm twilight brushing against the sky, I figure it’s time to stop loitering.
> 
> I toss out my cup and march downstairs, sliding my book onto the shelf as Simon stays at the counter, reading something. Upon further inspection, I note that he's got A Picture of Dorian Gray in his hand, which leads me to a further thought of “I’m surprised he can read” . I bite it back and clear my throat. Feeling a tad charitable today, I suppose.
> 
> Simon’s head lifts as he stares curiously up at me, his finger resting on the word he must’ve left off at.
> 
> “Tyrannus,” I say quietly, hands stuffed into my pockets. I gesture them out, my jacket opening as I wave them to the side. “That’s what the ‘T’ stands for. Tyrannus. It’s an old family name.”
> 
> -
> 
> T.B. Pitch has to write a new hit, and to his frustration, nothing's coming to him. That is, until he meets a man that seems a bit too good to be true--or at least, who he seems to be.

I think I’ve completely lost my stride.

 

I feel an itch for inspiration, flipping through every picture book I can get my hands on, any Nat Geo left on a coffee table for slightly too long. I crave it, ingesting every concept and trying to have it sit within me and absorb. To grow.

 

It’s not there, though. The inspiration. It’s fled from my brain, leaving me with an extended blank set across pages upon pages of discarded, worthless strewn out phrases. Every 3AM drags on a century, leaving me without anything to put down beyond shit concepts.

 

My manager keeps emailing me, checking how I’m doing. He’s nice enough, but it pisses me off to hear the ding of my inbox to check up on me. Sometimes, he's wondering if I’m even alive. At this point, I should tell him I’m not.

 

On occasion, he’s called me too, ringing at all the worst times. Those, coincidentally, are the hours that I’m completely free and doing nothing but sitting on the sofa in just my pants, drinking rum at 3:26 in the afternoon. It’s just the ‘worst times’ because I’m usually _thinking_ about doing something, which, granted, is more than I usually do.

 

“Basilton,” he sighed, a minute into the call. I heard the shift of the cell from one shoulder to the next, his exasperated tone growing heavy with impatiency. “You can’t just sit around and wait for some divine inspiration shit to hit you. You’ve got to work on something; you’ve got actual hungry readers now. It isn’t some uni zine where you’re allowed to throw in sad poems and call it a day, you’ve got to work.”

 

His stuffy voice droned on, giving me the talk down as if he were my mother as I sat and listened (muted, so I can scoff as much as I feel necessary).

 

I usually just wait until he’s done, promise I’ll do some dumb shit like a daily journal, then hang up and never do what I said I’d do.

 

Most afternoons, at this point, are filled with keeping my aunt company. (“You’re the one who shows up unannounced and makes me let you in--you don’t even have a key,” Fiona likes to remind.)

 

Sometimes, just sometimes, I go on shit dates. I try to occupy myself with various blokes I find on concerningly straight-directed dating apps (Grindr makes me hate myself, at this point). Frankly, I don’t know how people naturally find each other--the concept of “natural” even feels superficial to say. _People_ are superficial. Every man I meet for a drink ends up as some stuck up tit with either a cover band or a work out regimen that includes ‘sex’ as cardio (he’ll always somehow manage to work that in). It feels like an endless rotation of disappointment, trying to find someone to fill that spot in my chest that doesn’t quite scream “love”, but rather “I’m quite bored of not having someone to tell me I look good who isn’t obligated to through familial relation”.

 

On occasion, I’m talked into doing outings. And by that, I mean I go out and do menial tasks to fill my day so that Fiona doesn’t complain or Dev doesn’t threaten to drag me out to some indie concert or anything else similarly trivial. It's horrendous, really; the false illusion that I'm being social. Therefore, I aim to go to the least crowded spots in the city to camp out in until my socialization quota fills itself for the day.

 

Which, I suppose, is why I’m finding myself wander into a bookstore early in the afternoon on a Saturday.

 

I always feel myself gravitate towards books, whether in libraries or shops. Simply, anywhere I can get my hands on a book are an oasis for me. Book stores, especially independent ones like the one I’m in now, have a practically inescapable, urging me desperately inside for a peek at what the owner’s decided to stock their shelves with. Sometimes I find that the displays of these places seem to tell a story. The larger collection of mysteries, or an emphasis on nonfiction, all act as a guide into the owner’s brain. It’s something I find myself picking apart as I first step into the new store, welcomed by the scent of peppermint and vanilla bean candles filling the newly renovated space.

 

It’s well lit, smoothly separated, and quite larger than the outside gives away. There’s a spiraling staircase going upstairs leading up the unknown, and there's a back area, which you can only slightly look into, is clearly dedicated to the children’s works. I hear a chipper voice and the giggle of children, which impulsively throws a frown onto my face. So much for peace and quiet.

 

The shop is clearly just starting up. It’s painted an awfully cheerful yellow on the outside, which doesn't help much for the stuffed-aside location of it. What really caught my eye was the swinging street sign, reading _Counting Sheep_ , which included a quaint graphic of a sheep reading. Inside, it's made that clear the owner’s got an affinity for barnyard creatures, as independent floating shelves drilled into the walls are filled with little porcelain figurines. They're mostly painted goats and, of course, sheep.

 

Per-usual, I make an effort to not look at the cashier immediately, but instead take a look over the prime display table, which is where I see it immediately.

 

“Gravel Road” by T.B. Pitch.

 

It doesn’t stand particularly stark compared to the other recommended books. A similar “Bestselling” sticker slapped on the front, the back littered with reviews all stating similar quotes to practically any other popular book one picks up. _“Fantastic”, “A literary masterpiece of the century”, “A brilliantly insightful look into the adolescent brain in this bold coming-of-age”, “Pitch is definitely a genius of our time”._

 

I pick it up, sliding it in my hands and scanning over it out of impulse. As I'm eyeing up the hardcover copy, I hear a voice peep out from behind the register. “That’s a good one.”

 

Turning my head, eyes of a short-ish woman, maybe in her early 40s, catch mine. She’s got cropped blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose, and a face that looks strikingly similar. Like a ghost of a hauntingly familiar figure.

 

“What’s that?” I ask, the book still in my hands.

 

The presumed owner, if not simply an employee, grins a bit overly toothy, but warm nonetheless, smile. “I said,” she begins, “that that’s a good one. I mean, of course it is, since it’s a bestseller, but it’s one of my favourites of this year. Think I’ve read it at least twice.”

 

The flat expression I’ve got trained to my face doesn’t shift much at all as my head nods. “Interesting.”

 

She gives me a little smile less of a smile. “No pressure to buy it off the bat, but I’d say give it a shot. We’ve got some armchairs upstairs and a pound Keurig setup.”

 

I dismiss her by setting it down. “Not necessary, but thank you,” I say, gaze focusing back to the table and on other book strewn about it. Grabbing one that’s new to me, I keep my focus on it even as she speaks up again.

 

“Suit yourself, but if you change your mind, I’ve got a single signed copy left.”

 

Part of me can’t help but smile, drumming my fingers against the glossy cover of the novel in my hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll have to pass.” I briefly consider wandering around and upstairs, but the racket coming from the children’s area deters me, at least for right now. Another time, though. It’s quaint here; cosy. Suppose I'll make another stop in some other day.

 

I step over to the register, setting the book on the counter and watching the woman sit up and slide it closer to scan and punch in. It takes a moment for me to grab out my wallet, flipping it open and handing my card over.

 

She takes a brief glance at it, raising her eyebrows before shoving it into the chip reader. “Huh.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Oh, nothin’. Just the name, that’s all. Same last name as the author of that first book you picked up.” Her eyes look up to meet mine.  “Any chance you know him?”

 

With a slight hesitation, I consider a fake response to avoid the conversation. It's what I usually do, frankly. Some arseholes care about fame, but I don't give a shit if people know it’s me, mostly. I still barely believe the book was worth praise, after all.

 

I deciding against the lie, letting the moment's hesitation give away. She seems kind enough to not make a fuss, and maybe she’ll let me have a free book next time I come in (not that I need charity, or anything). “I do, actually.”

 

A shock of blonde hair pops up as her face meets mine, grinning again all brightly. “Oh, well, why didn’t ya say so earlier? Tell me, what’s he like?”

 

I shrug my shoulders briefly, accompanying it with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

 

It takes her a second as she squints up at me, then immediately bursts out in “Shit, you’re T.B. Pitch?!” to which she covers her mouth, seeming to remember then that she has children nearby. It makes me genuinely smile.

 

“Flesh and blood,” I respond, taking a slight pause before cocking my head to the side and glancing around her. “Got a pen on you?”

 

She nods and scrambles to grab one from underneath her side of the counter before handing it to me without a word. She seems curious as to what I’m doing, but doesn’t ask questions. Maybe a little too trustworthy.

 

I spin on my heel, picking up the three copies of my book from the table and scribbling my signature down in blue ink onto the inside covers quickly before setting them back and capping the pen. “There,” I hum, overly pleased with myself as I'm handing it back. “Now you’ve got three more.”

 

She gapes at me, barely having the grip to take her pen back as she hands across my card and the newly purchased book. “I… thank you. Fuck.” Seeming a bit dumbstruck, she extends a hand across the counter once she fully processes it. “Brilliant to meet you.”

 

I shake it out of courtesy, dipping my head. “Of course. Pleasure’s mine, actually. You’ve got a lovely shop here.”

 

Beaming at the praise, she nods her head. “We just opened up about a month ago. Thank god for Simon, though,” she says, waving her hand to the back room with a fond smile. With the amount she grins, I wonder if it hurts her cheeks. “He took the job without hesitation, even when I told him it wouldn’t pay much. Heart of gold, that one.”

 

So that’s who’s back there. Interesting. “Is he the one reading to the kids?”

 

“It isn’t just reading, exactly.” She practically waves me off. “Go take a look-see for yourself.”

 

Despite my internal protests towards the crowds of children, I follow her instructions anyway and head to the doorless entrance of the kid’s nook.

 

Standing at the open doorway and peering inside gives me an eyeful of the scene all at once. There he is, yellow spray-painted foam sword in hand and skin splattered with freckles and moles. He's joyously exclaiming each part of the fairy tale in his hand to the cluster of maybe seven children around him as their parents all stand nearby to watch and listen to the show. He seems at peace, in a rhythm of speaking rather than reading; he doesn’t even really look down at the book but seems to hold it for the effect. It’s more of an act than anything; it’s not bloody Twelfth Night, but it's impressive.

 

He goes on, even as I stand there, with unbridled enthusiasm for such a simple task. A wide, face-full smile not faltering at any time during his reading.

 

It isn’t until the very end, when he finishes it off with the classic “the end” that I realise I’d been caught in a trance from him. The way he moves, the way he _smiles_ , the way he holds the sword hits something in me, making me startle. He’s like some protagonist. The shining hero with a handsome face and carrying himself with a kind, pure heart. It’s nearly too much to take.

 

The show wraps up as he puts the “sword” back in his hip holster and closes the children's book. My attention follow his hands, trailing up his standing figure before I realise that his eyes are trained onto me. We stand watching each other, not moving an inch as we wordlessly examine one another across the room.

 

Heat rises up on me, making my throat itch and head spin. Fuck. Shit.

 

I try to think of something to say, some sort of compliment for what he’d done, but it just comes out as a, “Keep it down. It’s a bookstore and _some_ of us want to read.” Words tumble out in a snarl, which in turn contorts his face from curious to confused, then to a bit disgusted. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and retaliate with something, but he’s cut short by a young child grabbing his pant leg for attention.

 

My vision warps a little around the edges, watching the man for a split second before I step back, registering what I’ve done before hightailing it out (but not without saying goodbye to the owner, because I might be a dick, but I’m somewhat a decent human being below the surface).

 

At times like this, I wish I could get a second “first meeting”. Mainly because that was utter shit. It was somehow worse than just spitting at him off the bat. At least spitting has some dignity in it, unlike yelling at him to shut it in the bloody shop he works at while parents and children watch.

 

At this point, I might be a shit human who was a dick to just some cute employee. I'd just embarrassed myself in front of a full crowd, and there's no greater introduction cock-up than than.

 

But, at least I got a little something incredibly unexpected and useful out of the horrendously awkward encounter: an idea.

 

It festers for a few days, camping curiously in the back of my head as I go through day-to-day activities and mill around with other concepts. Hero. Some heroic tale; something… dark? No. Not fully dark. Humorous, yes, but not a comedy book.

 

Eventually, it settles. It's the next Thursday night as the winding roots of the story's tree are only sprouting to the surface surface.

 

Sitting in my bed with my laptop settled atop the blankets piled over my half-folded legs, I space out into a world beyond my own. It’s frankly one that I’m hoping isn’t a sleep deprived, Harry Potter knock-off that I’m throwing onto a Word Doc. It's feeling like I’m typing at a million miles a minute, brain unhinged from the cathartically slow train it usually tugs along. It all seems to spill out of me; pages upon pages of words, a world building at my hands. There's “magick” (I’d like to think I’m funny. Aleister Crowley wouldn’t be proud of it but I surely am), and a character that’s possibly more than coincidentally similarly described as looking like the bloke (Simon) from the bookstore.

 

It takes at least 12k words of incoherent ramblings for me to notice that the sun’s breaking the horizon and filtering Friday’s daylight onto my bedsheets. It makes my eyes sting once it shines over them, giving me an aching headache and an urge to shut down for a few hours.

 

I slam my laptop shut, head spinning as my fingertips pinch the bridge of my nose.

 

The moment my head hits the pillow, my brain starts shutting off and drifting into a state of unconsciousness--or as some like to call it, sleep.

 

When I wake up mid-day, I decide that I need to do something with my my mind. Something to spark something else in me. Further inspiration to give me the motivation to keep this writing binge flowing.

 

My feet start me off, taking me somewhere my body and memory both know, but my active mind would rather avoid at the time being.

 

Part of me deeply resents myself for not wearing a warmer jacket as the early winter wind slices into my face and chills my body, forcing me to hug the wooly fabric closer as I trudge along the sidewalk. It’s about three blocks ahead and six blocks to the right. Not an incredibly long walk, but enough of one to regret getting out of bed.

 

The door to the shop is still the striking yellow of freshly painted wood, barely chipping around the edges. As I step in, the doorbell above me chimes and sends the head of the man working the desk up.

 

There he is, the shop worker. Simon. The upbeat, friendly smile mostly wipes away the moment he realises it’s me.

 

My hands cup in front of my mouth as I huff out a breath, eyebrows narrowing back in a bitter response to his reaction. I step more inside, letting the radiator heat of the shop warm me back to life. Simon’s disappointing stare bares into the side of my head as I glance away, making my way to the display table to see the new editions.

 

After a minute or so of looking, I remember the shop owner’s proposition of the coffee machine upstairs. I wonder if there’s hot chocolate, too…

 

I pick out a copy of the newest addition to the table, tucking it under my arm as I shoot back a glare at the employee. My nose upturns slightly before I flick my head away and marching up the stairs.

 

It’s cozier up here than below, definitely showing why the owner picked this location. The bay windows sit just right so that the building across the street doesn’t entirely block the view of the city. They overlook nearby buildings, letting the taller ones close by block parts of the sky while still letting sections of light fill into the room. The soft, late winter day's glow illuminates the old carpeting and plush armchairs, making it all feel timeless. The walls are all bookshelves filled with used books, some looking like antiques. The scent of ancient paper and the burning soy based candle fill the air and set me into a borderline otherworldly space, but the gentle rattling of the glass panes remind me that I’m cosy inside.

 

Set up in the back, there’s a fold out table with a Keurig machine, a sorter for the pods, a little basket with teas and hot chocolate (thank fuck) as well as coffee fixings. Beside it sits a stack of disposable cups with wooden stirs, a plastic wrap covered glass platter with baked goods on it, and a little plastic container with a slip of paper with scrawled writing on it saying “ _Leave a pound to keep this running xoxox Ebb”_. Must be the shop owner’s name, then.

 

I take out two pound coins and drop them in, taking a cup and filling it with water before dissolving the chocolate powder into it. Grabbing one of the baked goods out (a scone), I nibble on the end as I take the seat closest to the window.

 

Immediately, I melt away into the moment and get through the first two chapters of the book before I lose focus, my eyes only glazing over the words. I eventually get tired of not tricking myself into actually collecting the words and set the book on my lap, sipping my drink and glancing out the window. The passersby whisk around, the world buzzing with foot traffic as people race to one place or another. Rarely do you ever see anyone just walking to find a place; everyone walks with a destination.

 

That’s the issue with people: They’re not smart enough to branch out.

 

They mill around mindlessly and don’t give a care about the tiny shop, stuffed to the side yet existing infinitely inside.

 

The clanking of the metal stairs cuts my thoughts short, shifting my attention over. Out pops Simon, who’s making a beeline to the pastries platter. He grabs not one, but two scones, shoving one into his mouth immediately and turning to face me sitting across the room and staring him down. He sort of guiltily stays still, chewing twice with his mouth open before remembering to close it. He swallows after what seems like ages, licking the crumbs off his lips. Classy. There’s a silence between us as he eyes me up, focusing on my own scone resting on my knee. Eventually, he breaks into a grin. “Do ya like it?”

 

Unsure of whether he means the book or the baked good, I stare directly at him in a bored gaze. It dawns on me that he definitely sounds less literate while talking in person rather than “reading” a book aloud. I have a sneaking suspicion that he has that story memorized. “The… scone? Or the book?”

 

He doesn’t break his goofy smile, all teeth and scrunching his cheeks to the side. “The scone. Bake them myself,” he proudly proclaims, swaying forward onto the balls of his feet as he watches me. “I bring in pastries for Fridays.”

 

He doesn’t seem to like big sentences, either. “It’s a perfectly fine scone,” I say shortly, sipping my drink. The hot chocolate’s a bit disappointing to me, since I make my own at home (properly, with milk), but it’ll do.

 

I don’t press for further conversation, my head turning back to the windows and watching over the world scatter by.

 

“These aren’t my best, though,” He continues. The creeks of the floorboards below him get muffled by the ages old carpet, yet I can still hear his slow approach to the banister of the staircase. As he leans against it, he starts downing this next scone down in actual bites. “Blueberry aren’t my favourites.”

 

“What are, then?” I ask, trying not to seem interested. I absolutely loathe to admit that know I am.

 

I also hate to admit that my heart patters a little faster as I notice him perk up at the continued conversation. “Sour cherry,” he says happily, a few crumbs falling from his chin. They catch in his stubble, to which he wipes off with the sleeve of his muted green jumper.

 

Grown stubble would look fucking fantastic on him.

 

“Why would you make a scone _sour?_ ” I mumble disapprovingly into my cup, sipping slowly before finishing off my own scone in two bites.

 

“Balances, doesn’t it?” He offers, leaning forward to speak as his arms cross his chest. It’s then that I notice a few things about this appearance, such as the golden cross that dangles from his neck and the nametag he probably wrote for himself because it’s done with Sharpie and it’s got a “:)” at the end. His shoes look old; a pair of ancient converse with worn in sides and holes rubbed into them. His jeans are tattered and stitched at the knees, but his jumper? His jumper looks new. Suits him.

 

“I prefer just sweet,” I say flatly, trying to end the conversation again. I fear I'll tiptoe into the uncharted territory of a somewhat friendship if I continue this.

 

He just doesn’t want to finish it. “I think you’d still like them! I put sugar on top and all!” He reminds me of a bouncing puppy dog when he talks. It reminds me that I’m a cat person.

 

“Don’t know if I’d care to find out.” With that, I stand, tucking the book under my arm again as I brush my hand on my arse to dust off the crumbs. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind checking me out downstairs? You know, doing your job?”

 

He blinks again as his face drops back, staring obliviously at me before slowly making his way down the stairs. “You don’t have to be a prick,” he mumbles under his breath, stealing a glance up at me as my foot hits the bottom step. I catch it, staring down disapprovingly as he blushes and turns his head the other way. Good. He rings me up in silence, eyes downcasted and eyebrows knit in an angry dissatisfaction.

 

I elect to not answer, paying with my card and sneering at him as he hands back my book and receipt. I depart without another word, heading to my flat briskly.

 

Once I sit comfortably, I crack open my laptop at my kitchen table and scroll back up towards the beginning of the book, back to the part where I said the character’s favourite food is roast beef. I rewrite it, saying it’s sour cherry scones.

 

With a crack to my knuckles and a smile growing on my cheeks, I reread over the rewritten paragraph. Something about it feels _right_ (while also feeling a tad stalker-y, but that might be an issue for when-the-book-is-released Baz, not right-now Baz).

 

After lowering my laptop shut, I gaze around my empty flat and exhale before hauling myself up to make breakfast. As I’m pouring milk into a bowl, I drag out my phone and tap through notifications. Of course, there’s nothing of use.

 

In the depressing haze of my stood-upright while eating cereal dinner, it dawns on me that I'll probably have to go to the children's book reading tomorrow for ideas.

 

Fuck it to the fact that we don’t get along too well (thanks to my idiocy), I _need_ to see him. He’s the one forcing the story forward. I may even need to get to know the bloke to figure out the rest of the plot. Shit in the story’s a bit lonely now. He’s got a best friend/sidekick, unnamed and currently a bloke. No details there. He’s orphaned. Got some hotty-totty girlfriend who doesn’t love him, and he’s got the hots for his incredibly handsome and powerful vampire roommate who _happens_ to look like me.

 

So no, that’s not weird at all. This is just writing. Just my creative visionary in the process; my story however I’d like to write it.

 

As I’m rinsing out my bowl, the obnoxiously loud ringtone that Fiona set for herself goes off from my buzzing cell, shifting around on the countertop. I finish up, drying my hands before swiping and swiftly resting my phone between my shoulder and ear. “Yes aunty dearest?” I mock, drying off the soft green porcelain.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” she starts off with. Charming woman, really. “Radio silence for nearly the past week. What’ve you been doing, lying dead in a ditch for shits and giggles?”

 

I scoff a little at her as I set the bowl in the mostly empty cabinet. Year and a half of living here and I’ve barely got more than a couple dishes. “You could’ve texted. I would’ve answered.”

 

“You know I hate texting,” she grumbles bitterly, “and it’s easier to expect you to show up like you always do. Sets me on edge when you don’t.”

 

“Well, I’m fine.” I punctuate it with a raised end syllable, trying to get her to shut up. “For your information, I’ve been writing again. I have a new book idea, and it's even better than the last, if this one works.”

 

I can practically feel her shock through the phone line. “Shit, Baz, have you really? And it isn’t some shit poetry again?”

 

My jaw clenches as I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I haven’t written poetry since uni.”

 

“Yeah, well, good thing, too. One open mic at a coffee house and I’d snapped enough for a lifetime. Although, I’ll say, a turtleneck suits you.”

 

“Do you have anything of importance to say, or can I hang up?”

 

“Oh you little _shit_. Are you writing right now?”

 

I tap my fingers against the countertop, contemplating a lie. “No.” I immediately regret not lying.

 

“Lovely. You coming over? Nicky’s off doing shit knows and you’re not the worst drinking buddy I can think of.”

 

I smile to myself as I head towards my bedroom for reasonable trousers. “ _Probably_ shouldn’t be saying that about your nephew, hm?”

 

She huffs and I can hear the shake of her cigarette box. “You’re more like my kid.”

 

“Wouldn’t that make it worse?”

 

“Probably.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “See you in 20?”

 

“Mhm.” I hang up on her, grabbing my house keys and wallet before shoving on my shoes and slamming the door behind me. I throw on my coat as I head towards the closest tube station, taking long strides and letting the world whisk around me.

 

There’s still the sharp stabbing in the air, almost feeling frigid enough to let it flurry. I half hope it does.

 

The incessant buzz of the underground lights fill the empty station, making my headache thump against my skull. I look down the track, tucking my card back into my wallet as the lines remain still for the moment being. I contemplate sitting, but I quickly decide against it.

 

There’s something about being alone in places where others should be that drives me up the wall. It makes me want something--someone. I crave the presence of another person to hold my hand, to wait here with me.

 

The flashing mental image of someone beside me, laughing at some quip I’d make runs through my mind as I shiver restlessly in my coat, hands stuffing deep into the pockets.

 

If someone were here, he'd takes my arm and tucks the loose strand of hair falling onto my cheek back behind my ear, kissing the bare skin where it’d just brushed.

 

The man in my mind is growingly familiar. A few inches shorter than me, warm skin and unmanaged, loose curls. He smiles like he’s just been given the world and laughs like it’s always been his. I hate myself for him, because in my head, he’s standing right here with me and giving me all his stardust smiles as if they could ever be mine to begin with.

 

My excruciatingly lonely, gay fantasies whisk away with the burst of air from the rushing tube screeching into the station, a set of doors halting nearby and pushing open. Two people file out before I step on, taking hold of a pole and staring out the dirtied plexiglass windows. I’m not alone in this space; there’s someone sleeping towards the end of the cabin, head fallen on her shoulder as she snores soundly. Somehow, being closeby to a sleeping stranger feels more comforting than being completely alone.

 

The ride is short, and when I exit, the other passenger is still sound asleep.

 

It’s not a long walk to Fiona’s, but to get buzzed in is a process. By a process, I mean standing at the intercom for at least 3 minutes, continuously ringing her doorbell until she shouts at me out the window to just walk in before she finally does buzz me in.

 

I take the stairs, reaching her sixth floor flat a little out of breath (I hate the elevator here, though. Smells like cat piss and it reminds me of the time I puked in the corner of it). I don’t even need to knock; she swings open the door to her in a tattered old shirt that has “Cops R Pigs” scrawled across it and a pair of stain-splotched sweats. Her hair’s pushed up into a bun that’s barely wrapped around and with a spare cigarette pushed into it--got to say, she’s a classy woman. “Oi, did you climb the fucking stairs?” she mocks, letting me in.

 

“You know that lift fucks me up,” I huff breathlessly, sliding off my coat and hanging it by the door on a nail that she'd fashioned into a makeshift clothing hook. I take off my shoes, nearly falling over in the process, as Fi makes her way back to the kitchen. “Did you order any take out?”

 

She mumbles some sort of answer, stepping back into sight with a bottle of rum and a half finished 2 litre of coke, which she sets on the coffee table in front of her telly before gracelessly falling back onto the sofa. I watch as she twists off the frizzy’s top before pouring what should be a concerning amount of rum straight into the bottle. She closes it off and rolls it around, seemingly satisfied with herself.

 

I make my way to the kitchen, which, to my delight, has an open pizza box with about half a pie left in it. After snagging two slices, I join her and whatever shit telly’s on.

 

After we collectively finish about half the overly concentrated mostly-rum rum & coke, Fiona finally gets a bit talkative beyond bitter commentary about the reality stars on.

 

“So,” she begins, draping an arm back over the tattered back of the sofa, resting between two cushions. “What’s this book about then?”

 

I pause, pursing my lips as all the wrong answers dance around my tongue. I can’t just outright say it’ll be Harry Potter, but better. “It’s a fantasy book,” I settle on, taking back the plastic bottle and taking a swig. It burns my mouth. “‘S about a bunch of shit, but it’s properly gay, or at least it will be once I get there.”

 

Fi nods thoughtfully, squinting over at me. “What got you off your arse?” She half jokes, nudging my side. I can’t help but swallow my guilt (and try to forget my desperate fantasies after meeting this bloke, what, twice?).

 

“Someone I saw just… made sense.”

 

She snorts. “Someone?”

 

I sink a little deeper in my seat, forcing the last bite of the slice into my mouth before throwing the crust down. Yes, someone. “Doesn’t matter,” I cut it, “person’s not important, the story is.” Blatant lie, but cool.

 

She lets it drop, rolling her eyes. “Gonna finish it, though?” Her foot nudges my calf. “Not gonna abandon this like the last three books?”

 

“I plan to,” I bite back, taking a few solid gulps of the drink before coughing. My fucking head is pounding. Lovely.

 

I feel Fiona’s hand drop to my shoulder, though, resting there for a moment as her weight shifts more to a sitting-up position. Shit, she’s about to get all soft on me. “Fi, don’t-”

 

“No, let me,” she slurs, half glaring at me (despite barely being intimidating with her head woozing to the side). “I want to say that ‘m proud of you. You’re doing shit, and that’s good.”

 

I stare at her with as much of a blank stare as I can muster, the alcohol that’s warming my chest also warming my face and letting it melt into a little smile. I give her shoulder a nudge, looking down. “Don’t get soft on me. Not very becoming of you.”

 

She pats my back again (a tad aggressively), before flopping back against the arm and nudging the remote to me with her foot. “Pick somethin’. ‘M bored of this.”

 

I flip through a few of the Netflix options before glancing at the time. I stop, swallowing down the scratch in my throat. Fuck. “Actually, should be getting back to my flat.” I mumble, standing and trying to not sway.

 

Fiona frowns, raising her brow at me as she slumps even more. “Since when do you do shit on Saturdays?”

 

I try to throw a hurt look, dramatically pressing my hands to my chest as I half bend over to speak. “ _Excuse me_ , I’m a very important man with very important things to do, so fuck you.” I flourish it with a cocky smile that I’m entirely sure _is_ the rum before going to struggle with my shoes, fingertips fumbling with the laces.

 

“Fuck, I guess,” Fi mumbles. “Just don’t go AWOL on me again, Pitch.”

 

“No promises.” I stand, swinging on my coat and giving her a two finger salute before leaving with as quiet of a door slam as I can manage. Thankfully, I’m just sober enough to get myself home without an incident, but I crash on the couch fully clothed once I get there, half curled up on a decorative pillow.

 

By the time the light that fills the room hits my face directly, I’m already half awake, but actively regretting it.

 

Nevertheless, I drag my disgusting self into the shower and make myself somewhat presentable. I dress mindlessly and check myself before I leave, making sure I don’t look like a slob. It’s not my best button down, and definitely not my favourite scarf, but it’ll do.

 

Outside, the sky’s letting out a gentle flow of a flurry, barely dusting the ground, yet laying atop of cars and litter on the sidewalks.

 

I take my time, stopping off at a café for breakfast and an adequate drink before making my way to Counting Sheep. The front of the shop is fairly empty, which seems to be a reoccurring trend, but surely enough Saturday’s storytime is carrying on as usual in the back. Dare I call that comforting, though? I mean, although there's a hoard of children, it's still the dreamy bloke going on and on. So, possibly. It’s Simon’s voice, after all, and that seems to start something in me. The children’s voices aren’t quite my favourite, but I’ll elect to overlook that.

 

The shop owner--Ebb, as I’ve learned--perks up when she sees me, grinning from ear to ear. “T.B. Pitch has decided to grace us with his presence again!” she laughs, waving a hand to me. “Whatcha coming in for today? I heard you were here yesterday.” She’s got a steaming mug on her desk, which she’s playing with the wooden stirrer for as she leans her elbows down on the countertop.

 

“Do I need a reason to visit?” I hum back, giving her the most cheerful expression I’ll probably give today, which is a half-smile. She returns it in another laugh.

 

“Suppose not. We didn’t get anything new in overnight, though, but you’re always free to roam. Simon’s back there, though I don’t think you’re much of a children’s book person, anyways.” She’s right, I’m not.

 

I raise my cup to her for thanks, nodding my head towards the side section. “I’ll just be combing through the fictions.” She gives me an enthusiastic nod back before I slip away, slowly going shelf to shelf and examining the titles for anything that pops.

 

I don’t read straight books. While I’ve been told this is blunt and unrealistic, frankly, I don’t give a shit. Straight storylines bore me too quickly and give nothing to the characters while also feeling ridiculously forced. The concept of a storyline needing a person to be paired with a character of the opposite gender feels cliche, in my mind; it’s unneeded and unrelatable. People want to see themselves in writing, not what society expects to see. It’s why flat characters rarely ever do so well--they’re society’s expectations, but not the reader’s wants.

 

And, despite purely writing queer characters because that’s what I’d rather see, I’m suddenly “brave” and “revolutionary” for doing so. I’m a “gay writer” now, rather than a writer who happens to be gay. It’s all quite lovely, isn’t it?

 

Sometimes, I can't stand going into fiction sections because it’s nearly impossible to find a safely queer book. Scanning piles upon piles of fiction books bores me because I know that once I pick out a book and turn a few pages, it’ll immediately be _heterosexual_.

 

My head pops out of the section and I raise a brow, catching the shopkeeper’s attention as I stroll out. “Do you happen to have a queer literature section?” I ask, trying not to sound over enthusiastic about the subject. Granted, it’s not like it’s a _secret_ that I’m gay. My first and only hit so far has been with a queer storyline, but it’s still odd to step aside and have to ask for queer lit.

 

Ebb, though, seems to be more than happy to answer as she springs from her chair and rushes from behind the counter. “Absolutely I do, luv!” she pipes, leading me back into the room and gesturing to a shelf tucked away in the corner. She leans up on her tiptoes to talk to me now, as if to keep the conversation away from the other room. “Didn’t know if anyone would really ask. See, I’m a lesbian myself and I couldn’t possibly _not_ have a queer lit section, but I’d been afraid to put it on full display. You now, for the straighties.” I snort without control, having to regain posture immediately as I wipe the smile off my face.

 

“Right yes, of course, understood. Thank you, though.”

 

And with a pat of my back, she’s gone off back to the other room.

 

I slowly scan the books, mentally crossing off the ones I’ve already read. It doesn’t last, though, the ruckus of the other room’s events getting louder with Simon’s voice cheerfully rising up and filling the small shop. His voice carries like a speaker, but it’s got the friendly tune to it that makes you feel all warm inside. Like the snow falling outside isn't making everyone freeze; like he’s heating up the building on the personal generator of his spirit.

 

It allures me to the doorframe once again, this time standing mostly covered by the wall as I peek inside the room subtly. He’s reading a different princess story today; it’s one about a princess who saves herself. He does a high-pitched voice for her, going even higher for the other women and going ridiculously low for any male characters. Something about him tells me that he’s the sort of bloke who volunteers to go read to sick children too, but tells nobody about it.

 

I can’t tell whether or not that makes me see him as pretentious or more attractive. Probably both.

 

I stay transfixed on him, not even noticing the chime of the welcome bell as some new comes in. It’s only when I hear speaking that I break my focus and eavesdrop on the conversation behind me.

 

“Penny, dear, lovely to see you!”

 

“Of course, Ebb. Just here to grab Simon, since he’d promised that he’d get a late lunch with me today.” There’s a rattle of a bag, then the gentle thump of it being placed on the counter. Something in my stomach twists--it’s his girlfriend, isn’t it? Who else would be dragging him to a Saturday lunch?

 

“He should be done soon. Is Agatha joining you two?”

 

“Oh… you didn’t hear, did you?”

 

“Oh no, they’re not fighting, are they?”

 

I hear the new one, Penny, laugh. “No, which was the fucked part. Agatha dumped him last night. No argument, no nothing. She just left him. Said she wasn’t happy with him seeing her as this life-long thing, but I think she just really didn’t want the relationship they had in the first place.” _Oh_ . Still, he had a _girlfriend_.

 

There’s the soft thump of Ebb’s coffee mug settling down on the counter as she tuts. “Poor thing. How’s he taking it? He seemed fine to me, but you know Simon.”

 

“I know, I know. That’s the thing--he’s not sad, just disappointed and sort of confused. He says he didn’t see it coming, but between me and you, I never thought it’d last.”

 

Ebb sighs, voice dropping even quieter. “That's such a shame. He’s such a nice boy.”

 

I get so wrapped up in the conversation behind me that it takes a good moment to notice that Simon’s finished reading and is just talking to parents now. Within a split second, I’m back to a bookshelf, making myself look occupied as he strolls in a few minutes later.

 

My back turns to the wall as I scan a book about the Italian involvement in WWII, listening the three seeming to converse for a moment. I take my chance, eyes lifting from the page and taking a glance at the newcomer. She’s short, shorter than the other two. She’s got large rimmed glasses, thick brown hair, and the aesthetic that seems to be some personal blend of a 90s schoolgirl and classic grunge. She clearly makes up for her height with the rest of her frankly _concerning_ amount of confidence, making her seem larger than life. Somehow, I both respect her and am absolutely terrified of her.

 

None of them seem to notice me, so I subtly shift around and stare back at the page, acting as if I’m scanning the information intentionally until they leave. Once out the door I exhale slowly, setting back the book and going to the desk, giving Ebb a smile. “I’ll just be heading out. Have a nice week, though.”

 

She tips her head to me and nods. “‘Course, Mr. Pitch. Hope to see you again soon!”

 

I nod and step outside, noticing Simon and Penny are just down the block, their conversation just loud enough to catch the end of it.

 

“You know, I really do love the snow,” he sighs happily, arm outstretched in an effort to catch a miniscule flake falling from the sky. “Even if it’s a right pain, it’s fucking cool. Frozen shit from the sky.”

 

I blink towards him before grinning, biting the inside of my lip and turning the opposite direction, back towards my flat.

 

 _Snow._ It echoes in my head. Simon’s the snow boy. Simon. Simon Snow. It flows, working well into a fictional name. There he is, Simon Snow. Maybe he only exists in my own universe, where I can make him out to be who I want him to be. Granted, I’m taking plenty of liberties on him and who he is, leaving spots vague in case I learn more about him, so I can edit later. (Dear lord, this is creepier than I intended). There he is, alive at my fingertips and doing what I want rather than what I dream. It’s intoxicating; a character of a man I can’t have anywhere but my own mind.

 

I add Penny, replacing the previous best friend with her. Is she really his best friend? The _real_ Simon? Who knows, but she’s a bold enough person to become his best friend. She’s powerful and smart too; lively. Someone to balance and compliment Snow, while staying platonic.

 

I press on for days, only taking the occasional break to text Fiona that I’m alive, to eat at least a biscuit a day, and to sleep for roughly 2 hours on occasion. After about four days, I’m filling my way through the storyline to their first kiss and I stop, fingertips hovering over my laptop as I lift my eyes from the screen. Letting the ghost of the bright screen burn my eyes, I fixate my sleep-heavy gaze around my pitch black room. It’s 1 in the morning; it’s technically Wednesday.

 

I feel around the bed for my phone, pulling it out of a wad of my comforter and one of my two under-blankets. My thumb clicks hard at the home button and clicks it on, scrolling through checking my emails. Nothing important, nothing pressing. My bank looks fine, my text inbox lays blank as usual.

 

It’s so odd when my hyper-realisation kicks in, reminding me of how alone I really am. Spending hours creating people to care about, creating worlds of people that I understand so vividly, but yet I’m starkly alone in the real world.

 

People who read what I write versus who texts me on writing binges are quite a reality check. I have practically no one but Fi, Dev and Niall, and my manager Syd.

 

The nighttime is eerie. It’s dark and unsettling. It’s petrifyingly lonely when you want to exist beyond your own means and reach out to hold another life because you simply don’t have it in you to get anyone. Maybe I should get a cat. I like cats, and it’ll give me roughly the same treatment that I give other people.

 

Or maybe I should stop being cold to others; maybe they’ll like me more if I wasn’t such a dick all the time. Sounds exhausting, but it could be beneficial.

 

For the first time in days, I save and close my laptop, setting it beside me to charge as I lay back, hauling the blankets on top of me. I make sure none of my alarms or notification sounds are on as I relax back. Right now, I’ll sleep. Get some nice rest and stop bothering myself with the world in a word document. Instead, I need to take a trip back to the attic space. I’ll drop a pound for a watery hot chocolate and I’ll just stare out that window.

 

Will it help my writing? Who knows. I’m barely sure I can make anything I write ‘good’ until others give me the validation of it, but I do it anyway. And, frankly, even more of a reason to go is to see if Simon’s there--Snow. I keep thinking of him as Snow. It matches him: soft, bright, coming through as a storm.

 

As I sleep, I dream of the tube station again. Simon’s there, holding my hand. We wait for a while, barely talking but keeping close by. Trains pass by, and each time I reach to go, he stops me and says “It’s not _our_ car yet.” Whenever I ask him when it is our time, he tells me that I’ll know it’s our car.

 

I wake up clueless. I can barely read myself, let alone my dreams. I’m borderline clueless as to what it means, and I never quite believed dreams anyway, so there’s no sign there. It’s just a dream of me and him.

 

Is it Simon or is it Snow in my mind? They’ve started becoming two different people. Simon’s the one who I can’t have, the chipper one from the bookstore with a full face smile and what I thought was a tattoo on his left arm. He’s the one with his ears pierced and an ex girlfriend who he’ll probably replace with another girlfriend. Then there’s Snow. He’s explosively magickal and has an ex girlfriend that he’ll get over with by kissing his nemesis (a _boy_ ). Snow’s the one I can have, Simon’s the one I’ll probably never get to truly know.

 

After throwing on an overcoat and changing my joggers into decent slacks, I’m out the door and still thinking over Snow.

 

If I know more more about Simon, then Snow grows more alive, more real. Less what I want and more of what he is. So, of course I have to do _this_ more. Go and see him, be near him. Taunt him into speaking to me and revealing the secrets he doesn’t even know he’s hiding; the secrets of his existence, of his personality.

 

I’ll take it all. I’m a selfish bastard, after all.

 

As I get to the shop and yank the door open, the bell chiming shakes Snow--no wait, Simon--alert, turning his head to glance at me. He doesn’t seem to know whether or not to smile, shifting facial expressions at least 3 times before I give him a curt nod, turning my lip up to sneer at him. “Simon,” I drag, pressing a smile to my face.

 

He’s taken back, blinking at me and less than cordially saying “Mr. Pitch” back, which makes me snort.

 

“I don’t actually go by that. And don’t call me T.B. either, or else I’ll have to leave specifically _you_ a bad review on Yelp.”

 

Simon stares at me, a bit dumbfounded. “Then… what am I supposed to call you?” He could’ve just said nothing. I suppose he’s courteous, the little bastard.

 

“Basilton.” I turn my back to him, picking a random book off the shelf of biographies; it happens to be about Poe. “I go by Basilton.”

 

“Then what’s the ‘T’ stand for?”

 

I turn my head and glare him down. “Isn’t that a bit personal?” I snap.

 

He just blinks back, as expected, before shifting his weight and frowning at me. Interesting, doesn’t back down to a challenge. “It’s not that awfully personal. It’s just your name, tosser.”

 

My shoulders square as I stare down at him. If it were anyone else, I’d be remarks on their appalling customer service, but I take enough blame into this _and_ this is quite fun to rile him up. “I doubt you’d want your name talked about every time it’s brought up, would you?”

 

“Actually, I like my name,” he says proudly, smiling a bit. Oh, fuck him for smiling like that and for turning it _happy_ . “It’s my mum’s, not my trash dad’s. I’m quite happy with being a Salisbury, _thank you very much_.”

 

Salisbury. Oh shit, that's cute. Absolutely fucking adorable.

 

I purse my lips, keeping my eyes on him and rolling them for dramatic effect. “Good for you, then,” I mutter before practically stomping upstairs while still holding the Poe book. I toss a pound into the plastic basket, grabbing a cup and filling it with water and aggressively stirring hot chocolate into it. Ebb needs marshmallows. I’ll bring marshmallows for her.

 

With a groan from the leather, I plop back in my preferred seat and drag it slightly so I can look out the window comfortably as I fester.

 

He has _no right_ being that cute. Fuck him and his adorable face, and adorable personality, and adorable fucking self. Terribly amazing little prick, he is.

 

Slowly, I sip back the warm chocolate water (I’d barely call it “hot chocolate”), watching people pass by as I sink back into calmness. The tranquility of the space really gets to me after a while, reminding me of the public school’s library I’d spent countless hours in. The smell of ancient books, the cracking of the wood around the window’s edges, flaking off onto the small layer of dust at the sill, the texture of weathered leather seats, all of it. Makes me all soft inside; somehow makes me miss being 15, although only slightly.

 

Hours come and go as I stay, watching people pass by and leaving my book untouched. By the time the day starts setting, the 4pm twilight brushing against the sky, I figure it’s time to stop loitering.

 

I toss out my cup and march downstairs, sliding my book onto the shelf as Simon stays at the counter, reading something. Upon further inspection, I note that he's got _A Picture of Dorian Gray_ in his hand, which leads me to a further thought of _“I’m surprised he can read”_. I bite it back and clear my throat. Feeling a tad charitable today, I suppose.

 

Simon’s head lifts as he stares curiously up at me, his finger resting on the word he must’ve left off at.

 

“Tyrannus,” I say quietly, hands stuffed into my pockets. I gesture them out, my jacket opening as I wave them to the side. “That’s what the ‘T’ stands for. Tyrannus. It’s an old family name.”

 

He seems to process it for a minute before his stupid face breaks into that brilliant smile of his, beaming proudly as if he’d uncovered the world. “ _Tyrannus_ ,” he repeats slowly and making my heart race a bit faster. Fuck him.

 

My eyebrows knit together as I look down onto him, turning my lip up into a bitter sneer. “Don’t you dare repeat that,” I snarl. It doesn’t seem to phase him as much because the bastard _giggles_.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” He crosses his heart teasingly before laughing again and waving. “Have a nice night--it’s cold as balls out there.”

 

My cheeks immediately flare up as my heart pounds faster. This fucking arsehole, I hate him so much, I hate him so fucking much, I-- “Yes, well, you as well.” I turn and try not to run out, but rather take a briskly paced walk out and down the corner where I can finally let out a breath. My chest is going mad, back leaned against the brick wall as I try to relax my racing heart. Hand trailing up and eyes squeezing shut, I press my against palm my breast as my heart beats madly and I struggle catch my breath.

 

This is pathetic--I’m absolutely pathetic. Why am I acting like a schoolboy? He’s just some bloke I barely know, and I’m being an dick to him, after all. I shouldn’t care about him this much, but fucking hell, here I am, leaned against a wall a block from his job and trying not to freak out because the bastard _smiled_ at me.

 

I exhale shakily into the winter air, my eyes keeping shut as I steady myself. “Fuck,” I hiss, squeezing both hands shut into fists before releasing them quickly.

 

I must look like a fucking madman. Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.

 

I force myself off the wall, heading right back to my flat and throwing myself onto my bed silently, fully dressed and acting a mess. I contemplate getting up to make food, but then remember all I’ve really got is a box of spaghetti and about a quarter cup of olive oil left in its container.

 

After a minute of shuffling through my pockets blindly, I grab out my mobile and dial up Dev with speaker hit on. He picks up after about 3 rings.

 

“Oi, you’re not fucking dead,” he laughs as a greeting. “What does the ever-mysteriously disappearing Baz Pitch want now?”

 

“Oh piss off,” I groan. “I’ve been working and my house is empty as shit, but I don’t feel like take out. Where are you?”

 

“Home. Why, want to grab a bite?”

 

“Nothing festive, just real fucking food.”

 

“I _guess_ I’ll get up. Should I invite Niall?”

 

I huff. “Isn’t he off with his girlfriend on a ski resort or something else painfully straight?”

 

Dev laughs at the other end. “He got back on Friday, if you’d care to check in on occasion, you fuckin’ prick. I think we should at least give him a ring.”

 

“Fine. You do it. I’ll meet you both at that Thai place I like.” I hang up, pushing myself off the bed and going to make my hair look presentable again before going back out. I decide to walk, even though it’s a bit of a difference, because if I take a shortcut, I pass Counting Sheep.

 

He’s in there when I glance in, stocking a shelf and utterly oblivious as I pass, despite my slower paced walking compared to the rest of the foot traffic. I stare somewhat longingly at him, lingering for a moment longer than needed. It’s fine. He's clueless. It’s nicer to watch him when he doesn’t see me; he seems at peace and comfortable in his surroundings. Makes my heart swell as if I was some Grinch-y bastard.

 

The shop’s about six blocks from the restaurant, so I pick up the pace after I’ve had my fill of Simon. It’s never quite empty there, but it’s definitely not full. Honestly, it isn’t the best Thai shop, but the dimly lit house and gentle music combined with the fact that it’s nearly never busy makes it one of my favourite places in London.

 

They’re not there yet when I get in, so I snag a booth for the three of us and order myself some whiskey on the rocks.

 

As I settle, my mind wanders into eavesdropping on the conversation of the couple about three tables away, discussing their futures. Artsy-type people, probably early 20s, by the looks of them. The man keeps blabbing on, but I can’t help but think he looks like Robin Hood. Off he goes, rambling about the film industry and “how to make it big”, as if that ever truly works for anybody and it isn’t pure luck. Yet, he continues, grabbing the woman’s hands and whispering quite loudly. “We’ll be stars, you hear me? We’ll be bloody stars, you and I. Just wait ‘til it drops.” I’m assuming “it” is a boring experimental film he’s making in his uni class.

 

Something about it sticks though; _we’ll be stars_.

 

I whip out my phone and throw it into a notes file: _He told me we’d be stars_.

 

Just as I’m exiting out, Dev and Niall clamber into the seats across from me, shelling off their coats. Niall stares at me all odd, to which I respond with a bored “What is it?”

 

He laughs. “Good to see you too, mate. Just thought I might be seein’ a ghost, seeing as you haven’t phoned in centuries.”

 

“Eat a bag of dicks, Ni,” I mumble, glancing over the menu to avoid their disapproving gazes. “I wasn’t kidding over the call--I _am_ writing. I think I’ve got my next big story in the works and I don’t want to lose the steam I’ve got for it.”

 

“Alright, alright, tell us then.” Dev crosses his arms, leaning back against the booth. It’s funny; he’s from my dad’s side and despite his family being posh pricks like the rest of us, he tries to act a bit chavy. I’ve never fully figured out whether it’s because he thinks it’ll impress women (it definitely does _not_ ), or if he thinks he’s separating himself from the generations of wealth he sits on. I want to hope it’s the latter, but then again, I am the smarter cousin.

 

“It’s fantasy,” I say, shrugging. “It might my skirting a little close to Harry Potter, but I need to keep dragging it far from that hole. Thankfully, I’ve got inspiration for this one.”

 

The waiter stops by and drops off my drink, taking orders before heading back off. I toss back a gulp of my drink before either of them can get a question in, preparing for the emotional unload I’ll probably regret giving in a minute or so.

 

After a moment passes, it’s Niall who chirps up. “So, what’s his name?”

 

I snort audibly, relaxing back against the booth and swinging my arm over the empty back beside me. “How’d you guess?”

 

“You’re not _that_ hard to read. That, and the last time you wrote something big, you based it off Daniell, and that shit was four years ago at that point.”

 

My back straightens as my lips twitch. “And it made me a best seller, didn’t it?”

 

“You’re avoiding the question.”

 

I exhale, before taking another sip and setting my glass down as my nose scrunches. “Simon,” I sigh. “His name’s Simon. Before you ask, no I’m not seeing him, yes he’s someone I’ve interacted with, and am I following him around? Not exactly, but sort of.”

 

Dev laughs at me, which makes my upper lip curl up a bit. “Are you stalking the poor bloke?”

 

“No!” I say a tad too quickly and maybe too defensively as well. “I’m not _stalking_ him. He’s aware of my existence. I just happen to frequent his place of work and we talk on occasion. Nothing sinister.”

 

“See, saying it’s like that makes it sound absolutely sinister,” Niall breaks in, smiling tauntingly at me. I scoff, glancing down at my cup as it swirls at my fingertips.

 

“Look,” I start, but I immediately have no idea where I’m going with it. “No, just. Fuck. Okay. I’m not a creep or anything, I’m just taking inspiration from him, that’s all.”

 

He responds with a smile as he leans forward, resting his elbows against the table and dropping his chin on folded hands. “Mmhm… And no devious plot to get him to love you?”

 

“Wow, Ni, I’m hurt by your accusation,” I drawl dramatically, rolling my eyes. “I was 15 when I did that. I think 10 years has done me well enough for me to not have a chalkboard layout of my schoolboy crush.”

 

“Doubt it,” Dev mumbles aside, to which I knick his shin under the table for. He shoots me a glare before rolling his eyes.

 

I open my mouth, wanting to retort, but nothing reasonable comes to mind. Either way, the waiter shows up to serve us, to which I thank them and take a bite, starting to noticing how little I’ve been eating over the past few days.

 

My mind drifts to the scones Simon bakes. Fuck, I’ve got to go back on Friday. I want to go back on Friday.

 

After a few moments of silence, Niall starts talking about his trip, and I don’t hate listening as much as I usually would. He goes on about the spot and how his girlfriend is, and despite the boring undertones of hetero-romance shit, I still nod in support. She’s not awful, and he seems happy, so good for him, I suppose. Part of me wonders if he’ll get married, but I repress the thoughts of those around me (including myself) doing genuinely adult things before we’re 30.

 

Then Dev goes on about some menial bullshit, complaining about his job and his boss (I told him not to go into brewing, but apparently there’s appeal in there somewhere).

 

They glance at me on occasion for a comment, to which I only offer one-worded answers with my hand over my mouth, barely chewing the mouthfuls I’m scarfing down. I take this as a mental reminder to go grocery shopping, something I seem to rarely give thought to doing; a task that’s necessary.

 

We sort of shift topics slowly, rotating round to Dev’s sad love life rather than mine (I feel like they’ve finished ridiculing that). He’s a good sport, at least. Owns up to the fact that he leaves everyone he’s ever texted on read at almost any chance, but part of me wants to flick his forehead and tell him to grow up. I know he won’t, though. Not for a little while.

 

In my own pathetic mind, I drift back to Simon. I can practically feel him next to me, hand on my arm and laughing along with us. I feel like he'd fit in quite well, at least visually; relaxed as much as he was in the shop as I'd passed by. Dev would probably fake flirt with him, and Niall would give him a quick tease about the way he dresses like a sixteen year old, but he’d be liked. I'd like him. I'd more than like him. If he'd be sat next to me, I'd keep my hand in his, watching that bloody magnificent smile of his stretch across his face, lighting this dim little shop up. He'd fit in like a puzzle piece; our missing corner.

 

But I doubt it'll ever happen. It's usually just the boys and I, in the end.

 

I think I’ll write the two of them into the book. Not so much as to inflate their egos, but they deserve a subtle nod at being here for my bullshit. After all, they always stay. They stay through my poor life choices and, up to this point, shit excuses of ex-boyfriends. They exist so comfortably in whatever I get myself into. It’s nice.

 

At the end of dinner, I pick up the cheque, giving them the whole “I dragged you out” speech. It’s rightfully done since they usually pick up the tab whenever I get smashed in some dive bar--or even worse for _poor_ committed Niall, a gay bar--without a care in the world (or my wallet, for that matter).

 

We give each other hugs and respective shoulder bumps as we part ways. I climb into my cab, slumping back and rubbing my face.

 

So, I suppose I need to do actual responsible things tomorrow. Sounds lovely. Just what I want.

 

Might visit the shop, though.

 

Scratch that, I _am_ visiting the shop tomorrow, if only to just stop in and see what’s happening. With luck, Simon will be there to greet me with a new heart attack.

 

My eyes close as I hum happily, the memory of his flawless laugh burnt into my mind. I relive it, if only for a moment. The way it made me feel, the way it took my breath away. If I weren’t freezing, my cheeks would be red-hot right now, glowing like an ember.

 

Once we stop, I scramble around my pockets and grab some money, handing it over before heading inside in a flash. The lights are still off; they’ve been left untouched for days, if I’m being honest. I feel like a fucking vampire, living in lightless rooms and practically draping myself in all black to make everyday outings.

 

In the midst of the silence, I shed my clothes and change into something comfortable before piling the mounds of blankets on top of me, cocooning myself in and trying to sleep (which is a little easier than usual, given three whiskeys and emotional exhaustion).

 

I wake around 11, and by ‘wake’ I mean I slept until 11, then actually stayed put unmoving for two hours before having to drag myself out of bed and forcing myself to put on shoes and something that’s not joggers, again.

 

In a slug-like state, I make my way to the nearby shop and grab a trolley, filling it with whatever would be deemed necessary and a few extras. Overall, I grabbed anything that could be carried in as few bags as possible. Check out is tedious and it’s a process to even get out, but once I am, I make a little detour towards the shop. I'll admit, I'm a little more than curious as to if Simon’s working.

 

He isn’t, though. It’s Ebb sitting at the counter, doodling something on a notepad as someone mills around, picking up a book and putting it back.

 

I step inside anyway, half popping my head in to glance before fully entering the shop. It always smells so nice in here; like the smell of home.

 

“You know it isn’t Saturday, right?” Ebb jokes. I turn my head to look at her fully, wearing a cable knit jumper with her hair half pulled back. She grins like she owns the world.

 

I try not to seem too obvious that I’m glancing around for Simon as I nod back. “Am I bit early? Didn’t notice,” I quip before flashing a smile at her. “I… actually bought something, for upstairs. You were missing little marshmallows and I’ve got a bit of a guilty sweet tooth, so I grabbed some at the shop.”

 

She narrows her brows, smiling. “Shouldn’t have, Mr. Pitch,” she tuts, shaking her head as I offer it over. She takes it anyway, happily, holding it in her hands and examining it. “I’ll put it upstairs when I go back up.”

 

I bow my head to her, both hands gripping around the cloth bags handles. “It’s no problem, really. I’ve been coming in enough to notice the lack of them.”

 

“Well,” she says, grinning up to me, “thank you, dearie. Can’t promise Simon won’t snack away half the bottle during his shift tonight, but we can only hope.”

 

“Big eater?” I try to add nonchalantly. I’m just a casual man finding out casual information about someone I’m definitely not stalking. Casually.

 

Ebb laughs it away though, blissfully oblivious to my haunting obsession. “Never stops, that one. He keeps packets of cookies under the counter to snack on, and don’t get me started on when I order in. I’ve seen him devour a whole pie in under 20 minutes.”

 

I can feel my cheeks flush as I chuckle, eyes going down to my hands. “Sounds like an ordeal,” I cover with, forcing my face as calm as possible as my head levels again. “Well, I best be off. I’ve got shi--things to put away.” I feel a tad guilty cursing by her. Feels like she could be my aunt, if Fi married someone decent.

 

She nods, hair swishing back and forth with her head. “Of course. Will we be seeing you Saturday?”

 

 _Ah yes, it’s become a pattern._ My throat clears as I make a hint of a salute. “Saturday it is.” The door slowly falls closed behind me as I head off, taking a brisk walk back to my flat and unpacking everything mechanically once I get home. My mind wanders, drifting back to the buzzing screen of my laptop.

 

Snow’s a big eater, then. Granted, I’d already set him as a foodie, but he’s more than that, I suppose. He devours shit up, then. I’ll tie it in somewhere. Makes him more real, more alive.

 

I make myself a cup of tea and grab a sleeve of biscuits before wrapping myself back up into my pile of comforters and blankets. I'll be clacking away at the story until my mind won’t produce anything else and decides to shut itself off until I get a proper rest.

 

The next day swirls into a muggy blur of treading the line between existing and merely being a cluster of time in which I try to do something. I get a good few thousand words in, take a shower, eat an actual meal I cooked (as in some pasta with meat sauce), then go back to sleep so I can wake to a day where I'm a somewhat reasonable person.

 

Friday morning. It rings in my chest as I sit up in bed, hair mushed and groggy as all hell. It’s Friday; Simon’s in the shop with whatever pastries he’s baked up today. Whatever sweet surprise lies up in the nostalgic attic gets to be my next little taste into his world, letting me wander into his mind and his--

 

I’m sounding like a fucking maniac.

 

_It’s just a fucking scone, Baz. Stop losing your shit over this._

 

Despite the fact that it is _just_ a scone, it doesn’t stop my hands from shaking as I dress myself, sliding each button into its corresponding hole while my mind goes mad. What’s protocol here? Is it thanking him? Seems uncharacteristic. I’ll just tell him it’s not shit, that’ll get the point across. Maybe if I compliment him a _bit_ , but not too much, he’ll like it. Sounds like a flawless plan.

 

At this point, the walk there feels like a routine march--back to basecamp, get to your locations, soldiers. Round in and try to flirt with the ridiculously attractive clerk who’ll never love you back. Make a fool of yourself before offending him then hightailing it out. Flawless battle plan, really.

 

As the shop bell chimes, I take notice that Simon’s already staring in my direction. It makes my chest flutter a bit as his smile spreads, a cheerful “Welcome” spurting from his lips as he sets down his book.

 

I stare at the spine of the book he’s just settled, taking a moment too long to read that it’s _Of Mice and Men_. After blinking for a second, I meet his gaze and break away before I can make an utter fool of myself and just nod my head in response. He laughs, and it feels like a punch in the jaw.

 

“Huh, see we have a few regulars, but not ones who visit as much as you,” Simon pipes, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly in his seat. His “seat”, mind you, is a backless stool behind the counter.

 

I shift my weight as I go to look over the new arrival and store recommendations table. Am I caught in my act, or is he just friendly? The world may never know. “Yes, well,” I mumble stiffly, my eyes scanning over my options. “A writer needs his inspiration somewhere.” While my focus remains intensely on the books and _not_ Simon, it just so happens that he stands up and strolls over beside me, standing so close I can smell him. He smells like value brand soaps and a hint of cinnamon.

 

His head is right there when I turn, standing so close that if I just bent my head down, I could kiss his wild curls. “I actually read your book, you know. You’re _really_ bloody good.” Is he tempting small talk, or dare I say _flattery_? Oh dear lord, I’d beg him to not even try.

 

“I’ve gotten that before,” I say coldly, reaching for the newest arrival and turning it slowly in my hands, feeling the ridges of the raised title and dips of the author’s name. Simon’s got a way of freezing me in my tracks, despite my best efforts of warding him off. He’s Medusa, if Medusa only had the effect on lonely, mid-twenties, gay wrecks.

 

His head raises, face turning to me, and for the first time, I think I could count every freckle splattered across his face. I could trace his constellation moles with my mouth, if he’d let me. I’d do anything if he let me.

 

He squints a little at me, eyes darting around my face and resting on my eyes for a minute before something hits him. I startle as he jumps into a sentence. “Oh! I remembered what I'd said and I'd made those scones I’d mentioned last week!”

 

I feel myself exhale, realizing I’ve been holding in my breath for fuck knows how long. My eyes dart to the stairs as I nod, keeping my expression at a trained stillness. “I’ll grab one, then,” I say, slipping away from him and rounding the table. Heading up the stairs, I refuse looking back in fear that he’ll be watching me with that overwhelmingly adorable face of his. Frankly, I’m not sure how I’d deal with him looking at me when _I_ can’t see him; it feels too private. Feels like it’s slipping into a soft territory of friends, or a shot in the dark of him wanting a quick shag.

 

Now there’s a possibility I’d left unconsidered. A quick shag. On the surface he doesn’t quite present as a “Let’s bend you over, then I fuck off after”, but you never know. He could be into blokes for all I know, and I’m not just going mad every time he smiles at me because he knows how to get into people’s pants. He seems like an awful charmer, after all. He could charm the trousers off of me, and I don’t think I’d say no. I’d probably ask him to, honestly. I’m well pathetic.

 

I take a moment, realizing I’m standing at the top of the stairs blankly before shaking my head. No, he’s not some creep. He’s obviously not.

 

I drift over to the drinks table, lifting the plastic of the platter and surely enough, there’s plenty of scones sitting there, piled up neatly. I flip in two pounds before I grab two as my water drips down from the machine. Grabbing the packet and stirrers, I start pouring in the marshmallows first. Thank fuck it's always empty up here; my established seat by the window seems untouched and ready for me to sink into.

 

At first, I hesitate to bite into the scone, eyes shutting as I finally chew. It hits me after a moment--he was right. They balance brilliantly. Well shit, now he’s a brilliant baker. That prat. I could practically moan into this fucking scone, and he’s probably going to ask me what I think about it and how the _hell_ am I going to lie to him? Shit. _Shit_.

 

I practically scarf down the two I have, managing to chew before swallowing and savouring the lingering aftertaste. Fucking hell, they were perfect. My sleeve wipes across my face, getting the spare crumbs off of me before I sip my drink and close my eyes. I suppose now’s the time I figure that I am absolutely, truly, positively, without a doubt in my mind, fucked. I can’t drop this boyishly lovesick concept rattling around in my head, so either I’ve got to make him hate me more to get rid of it _or_ make him love me. One is obviously easier than the other.

 

The other option, though, might be significantly healthier and would have an overall better outcome.

 

I would weigh my options, then take into consideration my self-destructive nature in the past and how I’d vowed to change, but fuck that. Fuck change.

 

I finish off my drink, paging through the book and deciding it’s definitely too tedious to actually go through with buying before clambering back down the stairs and resting it within the pile it belongs.

 

Simon’s humming something as he stocks shelves towards the back of the room. It sounds familiar; a classic tune that rattles through everyone's head. I think it's Elton John. He does turn to look at me as I'm trying to make my quick exit, his voice stopping me in my tracks. “Going so soon?”

 

“Mm. Busy schedule.” Lie.

 

“Oh, uh, o-okay. Did you like the scones, though?”

 

I swallow hard. Lie 2. “Not terrible.” Okay, that came out possibly more manageable than a lie. An extreme understatement works in place of the guilt that a lie would pull from me.

 

He seems to take that as a compliment, because he’s a beaming beacon from the back. “You can take some for the road, if you want. I don’t mind--I usually eat the rest.”

 

“I really shouldn’t.” Fuck. Shit. I want to. “I should get going.” I could easily stay a minute longer. Or twenty.

 

“Alright then. See you, Basilton,” he says, waving me off.

 

I turn on my heel, flicking my wrist outwards as a sad excuse for a wave goodbye as I leave the shop in a hurry, glancing at the flow of cars on the street before following the traffic away from my flat. I know I don’t have to “throw him off”, and I definitely shouldn’t add another block of walking for that, but I can’t help myself. I want to go off on him, and that either means punch him or kiss him. I can’t quite decide which, or maybe it's both. Punch his stupidly brilliant face, then kiss his mouth as his bloody nose drips down onto us. I want it to be grossly hot.

 

When I finally clamber back into the flat, it feels restrictedly closed off, so I throw all the windows open and drape myself across the couch, coat still on and sprawled out around me as I breathe heavily. My eyes squeeze shut, the late-afternoon wind running across my face and seeping into my skin. Slowly, my breath levels, tiny puffs spooling out in front of my face as I exhale.

 

I’m ridiculous. I do this to myself.

 

I could just _talk_ to him tomorrow. Tell him I think he’s doing a good job, tell him that he’s phenomenal with kids and the ideal human being, then immediately jump out the second story window because there’s absolutely no way to recover from that.

 

That’s it, I’m absolutely mad. I might be mad for him. An absolute hopeless romantic is leaping out of my skin, trying to drag him back with me in desperation for decent companionship. For the first time in years, it feels like I can't _not_ be single. That emotional reliability of a romantic other is necessary; that I can't put up with being in an empty bed.

 

I need him. I don't know why it’s got to be him, and maybe it really isn't. Maybe it's the “him” that I'm dreaming up, but fuck it. It'd be damn well nice to have _him_.

 

No… no, no, no. I need to talk to someone. I need to steady my brain.

 

I need someone as equally unstable.

 

**To: Fi**

**From: T.B.**

 

**help**

 

**I’m gay and sad**

 

_welcome to hte club, kid x_

 

**I’m having a serious moral dilemma**

 

**I’ve got it hard for that bookstore bloke**

 

_nevr would’ve guessed x_

 

**thanks**

 

**appreciated**

 

**what am I supposed to do??? he thinks I hate him**

 

_have you considered not being a cold prick? x_

 

**for a split second**

 

**then I decided against it**

 

_you’r hopeless kid x_

 

**please just help me figure something out?**

 

_fine. whn do you see him next? x_

 

**tomorrow, if he notices me there**

 

_well that’s not concerning at all x_

 

_just compliment the poor guy for once x_

 

**i did**

 

**today**

 

**I told him his scones weren’t awful**

 

**fi they were the best things I’ve ever tasted**

 

**this man is a god. a baking god.**

 

_i’ll pay you to shut up right now x_

 

_i’m srious, jus tell him he did something good and it’ll b fine x_

 

**if this goes wrong I’m blaming you**

 

_oh no, i’m getting blamed fort elling you to compliment others x_

 

I drop my phone on the sofa beside my head as my eyes shut, my pointer and thumb rubbing against my temple as I exhale slowly. It’s as if feelings inherently give me a migraine. The concept of “just breathe and it’ll be fine” is completely null and void when you practically live in a constant wallowing of self pity.

 

The thought of just falling asleep here, fully clothed and windows all thrown open seems awfully tempting at the moment, but my interest dissipates once my back starts aching. I throw myself to an upright sitting position, adjusting my tucked button-down before going to close up all the windows.

 

My bed’s never been more appealing.

 

I practically pass out immediately, sprawling out and letting myself sleep.


	2. i'm a fucking creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning to you too,” I grumble, rolling my eyes and pushing past her. I set the drinks on the kitchen table, slapping my hands down and watching her. “Why’d you ever stop talking to Ebb?”
> 
> Fiona blinks and stops mid-stroll, eyebrows knitting as a deep frown spreads across her face. “How’d you know about--”
> 
> I throw the folded-up paper on the table beside her coffee, locking eyes on her as I walk forward and past her to hang my coat. “You just stopped talking to her? You had to know how she felt for you--it’s quite obvious, and you just stopped?”
> 
> -
> 
> Baz plays a bit of matchmaker to pass his time and occupy his mind.

For some ungodly reason, I wake up to piss around seven and can’t fall back into unconsciousness. Lovely.

 

Light seeps through the drawn curtains of my room, cracked rays streaking across the wood floors and racing up onto my bed. It hits my hands and forearms as I sit up and slump forward.

 

I should talk to him. It’ll make me much less of a creep, I think, if I just talk to him genuinely, like humans should.

 

My eyes follow out the window, peering out the crack to see nothing but the neighbouring building’s stone and brick walls as vague hints of dull reds and gravely greys.

 

I sort of love that; the dullness of the city. It’s comforting, like a cement blanket. I’m buried alive, but there’s no compression. I’m allowed to exist in solitude.

 

I turn my shower on as cold as it’ll go, stepping under it and letting it wash over me as my jaw clenches. I flip it onto hot after a minute, sighing softly as it hits my back. My head spins as I steadily take deep breaths, running my hands back over my hair and slicking it back under the stream. The washcloth is a little rough against my skin, rubbing my forearms red and the water’s stinging my face slightly, but it’s immediately soothed when I step out.

 

It’s nearly nine by the time I’m finally out of the flat, hitting the streets and stopping at the local coffee shop for a decent drink (sorry, Ebb). After lingering for a bit and sipping away at my drink from the corner, I duck out amongst inflow of late-Saturday morning to make my way to Counting Sheep.

 

It’s a little earlier than usual, I suppose, because the sound of Simon’s reading isn’t filling the store once I step in. I do, though, hear children’s laughter and chatter, so he must be starting soon.

 

The look Ebb gives me is a tad odd, but it turns to a warm smile after a minute. “Hi dear. In again, hm?”

 

“Suppose I am.” I raise my to-go cup to her. “Any new releases in?”

 

“There’s a few. I’m not particularly captivated by any of them yet, but they’re something.” She leans against the counter, exchanging looks between me and the back children’s area entrance. “Funny, he tells me you come in a few times a week too.”

 

A blush creeps up on my cheeks, nearly getting me to choke on the sip I’m swallowing. I cough, blinking and adjusting my weight. “I do stop in, I suppose.”

 

She smiles at me as if she knows something. My heart drops. “Just ‘stop in’?”

 

I stare down at the ground, contemplating my words. After raising my head, all my words float away. “I like being around books, and your loft space is quite nice.” Another not-quite-lie-but-not-the-truth.

 

Ebb’s head nods a few times, her shoulders moving a bit with it as she stares back in the room as Simon starts, the sound of the book’s spine cracking slightly as it peels open. I resist the urge to rush to the door and watch him go off, speak more eloquently than he seems to ever speak. My jaw hangs open in the slightest, eyes keeping track of him sit up further, lean forward, and give a show to the kids sitting in clusters around him.

 

“You have a thing for Simon, don’t you?” Ebb says softly, voice quiet enough that it doesn’t leave the border of the room. I flinch a little.

 

My gaze draws back to the counter she’s sat at. Her eyes aren’t on me, but rather still staring in to the other room, one arm propped up on the surface with her head in her palm. Her hair’s pulled back in a few clips today, strands of the bob falling out in small sections here and there.

 

I hesitate, my eyes dropping to the ground and tracing the wood grain as I clear my throat. “How could you not?” I mumble, hand gripping the drink tighter.

 

She chuckles a bit at that, head turning to look at me. I catch her gaze, chewing the inside of my lip.

 

“I won’t tell him, dear,” she keeps her voice quiet, “I wouldn’t take that away from you.” Her fingers tap against her chin rhythmically. “He’s not stupid. He may not be observant, but he figures things out in his own way. Sometimes, he needs a nudge, though. Give him that.”

 

The sound of my swallow seems to echo. I feel so dry, I feel so… I feel so… “Easier said than done.”

 

Ebb reaches her spare hand out and pats my arm, the warm smile still across her cheeks. “I know.”

 

Fuck. Is she a God?

 

My throat bobs as I nod my head, staring back into the room and leaning my hip against the countertop. He goes on, taking no notice of us as he waves an arm around. Must be another knight book, since he’s got the costume and sword on.

 

“Can I tell you something?” tumbles from my lips before I can stop it. Wait, fuck, shit, no. _Fuck_. Don’t.

 

“Of course.”

 

It’s too late now. “I’m writing a new book.” I can’t tell whether or not I’m whispering or if I just can’t speak this outloud, as if my body doesn’t want me to keep going. I do, though, because I trust Ebb. Inexplicably, she has a warm vibe. It reminds me of my mum, but she’s got an edge like Fiona. Shit, Fi would probably love her; she looks like her type, too. “I’m taking some… artistic inspirations, though.”

 

She stares at me then back to Simon, puzzling it together quickly. “Are you telling him that?”

 

“Fuck no,” I laugh, turning my head towards her so I’m not tempted to stare at him anymore. “He’ll have to dig that up from my bloody grave--or when I publish it. Whichever comes first.”

 

Ebb hums, raising her eyebrows as her shoulders drop. “Too bad. I think he’d like it.” She looks at me, staring at me quizzically. “So, what’s it about?”

 

“Magick. I keep worrying I’m some rip-off Rowling, but all I’ve got is some romance plotline and a bad guy, then the headmaster’s a dick. That’s it. No sturdy storyline, just a hero.” I stare down at my drink, sipping slowly in the silence of the moment.

 

The door chimes behind us, a customer stepping in as I flick my head back towards the back room because I’m a weak bastard. Ebb just happily greets him before looking back to me. She leans against the table more, watching my movements. “Have you tried writing it out?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She grabs a post it pack from under the table, clicking a pen. “I mean, using a few of these and an empty wall and physically planning it out. You get your ideas and a timeline set, then you work from there so you can see what you’ve got and what you need. I used to do it in uni when I wrote?

 

Slowly, I peel a sticky note from the top and play with it absentmindedly. “You write?”

 

“I dabble,” she says, shrugging. “I _was_ an English major, after all.” For a split second I think she’s nearly about to cry, spacing out into thought before snapping from it and taking a deep breath. “Uni’s a bloody weird time, though.”

 

I can’t help but to chuckle, tossing back the rest of my drink before tossing the paper cup into the waste. “Shit, it was.” The sound of my fingertips tapping against the counter echos slightly throughout the room, pattering down into a gentle rhythm. “I think I will try that, though.”

 

She nods, tipping her fingers like a hat. And just as I thought we’d fully moved from the Simon discussion, she leans back close and whispers “Don’t give up on him.” I’m not proud to say that I’m blushing, poorly hiding it with the tip of my head down to the floor and the upwards tug of my shoulders. Ebb nudges me, rolling her eyes. “I mean it. Don’t.”

 

“I’m not quite sure I’ll be _able_ to give up on him,” I mutter as the reading wraps up, the kids laughing and clapping from the other room. A long exhale blows out through my nose as I stand up straight, fixing my button down and slicking my hair back, trying to seem more or less casual, which makes Ebb snicker at me. I can’t blame her; I’m not quite the epitome of human comfort.

 

From the other side of the threshold, I lock eyes with Simon, who blinks then smiles devilishly. Oh, this was a mistake.

 

He excuses himself from the cluster of children and parents, stepping into the main room and smirking at me quizzically. “You’re not gonna tell me to piss off for reading?”

 

My lip curls into a sneer as I raise a brow to him. “I _was_ going to compliment your storytelling skills, but I suppose I could insult you if you prefer that.”

 

He squints a bit at me, as if deciding whether or not to take that well. “Thank… you…?” he says slowly, as if he’s still unsure. The look of confusion quite suites him. I’d rather like to kiss him and keep him like this.

 

“Yes, well,” I snip, turning my nose up to him and clearing my throat. “I have other business to attend to, rather than stand around and talk to you.” Ebb’s in the corner of my eye, obviously trying not to tut at me as I fix my coat’s sides. “Have a nice day, Ebb. Simon…” I leave it at that, raising my eyebrows at him before turning on my heel and quickly leaving with the scraps of my dignity.

 

I pick up post-its on the way home, tossing off my coat onto the couch and going to face the empty wall in my room, sleeves pushed up beyond my elbows and hair pushed back. Carefully, I scrawl various events I’ve got written out on different pages, slapping them at empty spots on the imaginary timeline. They seem to cluster and scatter too much, so I set them further apart, which makes it even more depressing.

 

Even little notes of various events that _could_ happen, like Baz and Simon fighting the Humdrum together pop up, settling down in spots with ‘?’ added to their ends. More notes like that start popping up, settling between some plot points, such as “ _Simon’s evil?”_ and _“Is the Headmaster a dick for a reason yet?_ ” All the creativity in me is apparently dead and drained out, leaving seemingly bullshit notes like “ _Ghosts???_ ”

 

It’s possible that I’m going a tad mad, but if I work just hard enough, maybe it’ll come to me. Some epiphany situation where it all flows into place and _clicks_.

 

My knees knock the back of my bed as I shuffle back, staring at the extended timeline curiously. There’s some extra notes, characters and names I might like or want to add. I sit back and squint, chewing the inside of my lip. Whatever’s missing’s big. Unknown. Terrifying. It stares back at me like it knows, traveling around the recesses of my mind and trying to get something out of me; an answer? A hint to where to go, what will make this good?

 

I know the answer. It starts with an ‘S’ and it ends with ‘imon’, and it means that I’ll have to continue being at least decent with him for an extended period of time. To not automatically look at him and just say “Fuck you” or, an even worse alternative, “Fuck me”.

 

**To: PSP (public school pricks)**

**From: T.B.**

 

**I’ll pay one of you to come to my flat and shoot me in the head**

 

_Ill do it for free_

 

**_Why do it for free when you could get paid?_ **

 

**you’d be doing me a favour, Dev, I’d want to pay you**

 

_Call it a friendly favour_

 

_Free or nothin_

 

**hm...**

 

**_Don’t fall for it._ **

 

**well... when you put it that way…**

 

**_Should we be asking why you want your brains blown out?_ **

 

**was rather hoping that you wouldn’t ask, but now that we’re here**

 

**Pretty Idiot is too pretty**

 

**maybe I’m the idiot**

 

**_What do you mean by that?_ **

 

_Awh baz’s got a little crushy wushy_

 

**I will snap your spinal cord in half**

 

_Shit that a promise?_

 

**_Boys, please_ **

 

**yes dad**

 

_Okay daddy_

 

**_You know what? Nevermind. Dev, shoot me too while you’re at it._ **

 

_;)_

 

**I’m so glad I can come and get support in my times of great crisis**

 

_Oh your such a bloody drama queen_

 

**can you feel the love and care?**

 

**it’s like I’m talking to myself**

 

**I can say anything here**

 

**I think I’m going to get my dick pierced**

 

**_I’m on the verge of muting you._ **

 

**can I mute my own brain?**

 

_Oi_

 

_Stop being edgy_

 

_What do you want us to do, mate?_

 

**to yell at me and tell me to stop being so sappy over a bloke I’ve barely known for a month**

 

**and who I might be stalking**

 

**but that’s not important**

 

**_I wonder if one day, our messages will surface and be used as evidence in a court of law._ **

 

**they probably will, but it’ll be Dev’s trial**

 

_Hey fuck you_

 

**_Ooooooh…_ **

 

**wow, dev, I’m trembling in my socks**

 

**_Seriously, though, back to the issue at hand. Baz, what’s holding you back? I thought you’d grown past the “I’m going to be a dick to men in hopes they’ll love me back” phase? We all agreed it never worked._ **

 

_Even when you actually had a boyfriend, mate_

 

**_Agreed. You’re an adult now. Face your shit and treat him, I don’t know, like a human being?_ **

 

**_Baz?_ **

 

**_Baz, you can’t just leave us on ‘read’ for half an hour._ **

 

**_You asked for this advice, may I remind you_ **

 

_Hey arsehole_

 

_Fuck you_

 

**somehow, that pulled me from my grave**

 

**_You are impossible._ **

 

**but yet, you answer my delayed texts**

 

**maybe I don’t need a boyfriend, I’ll just stick to you two and call it a life**

 

_Ok yeah text us that again when your hand gets boring_

 

**_As much as I hate thinking about your cock, he’s got a point._ **

 

**how’d you figure out my evening plans? ;)))))))))**

 

**_Baz?_ **

 

**no**

 

**_Baz, please?_ **

 

**what**

 

**_Lose my number._ **

 

**oh you love me, shut it**

 

**what do I say to Idiot Boy, though???**

 

_You dropped the pretty part?_

 

**he doesn’t always deserve it**

 

**_Have you tried conversing with him like a regular person? Asking how he is?_ **

 

**while it has been considered, I dismissed that as a terrible idea purely on the basis that I may automatically tell him he’s stupid**

 

**_Then talk to him about what you’re doing at the moment. Start a conversation about yourself._ **

 

**_You’re too self-centred to not take that opportunity to boost your ego._ **

 

_Yeah go suck your own dick_

 

**_We’re not talking about Baz’s cock again._ **

 

**that’s what YOU think**

 

**but yes, okay. I’ll try.**

 

_Thank fuck_

 

The pillow below my head puffs out under the impact of my head hitting it, sinking back into a comforting position. I want to laugh. Part of me is telling me to go back to the shop and apologise, but the other _tiny_ voice in my head is telling me to wank away my feelings. I’m fully aware that it’s not the top option. Masturbation only makes life more depressing when you’re wanking to a bloke who you’ve only met a handful of times but you’re writing a _book_ about him--

 

All of this is depressing, actually. Adding wanking to the list isn’t even that much of a moral downfall.

 

The hand not holding my phone drops to my crotch as the other one lets go and snakes up into my hair, fingertips running through it before locking around a handful. The hand cupping my cock moves up, taking the moment to unbutton and unzip my trousers as my hips shimmy upward. Once the fabric rests around my middle thighs, I exhale slowly, pushing my hand into my pants and giving myself a once-down rub.

 

Biting back my lip, I shut my eyes and wrap my hand around the middle. The pad of my thumb brushes over the slit and makes me squirm, mind wandering off into space. A galaxy. A fucking nebula of freckles and moles, a black hole of a mouth lined with white dwarves, sucking me in and spiraling me down.

 

His hands look calloused, time weathered and used. I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around me. I wonder how he’d use them.

 

I think he’d push me down on the bed and call me a prick. My cock twitches a bit at the thought-- the concept of Simon pinning me down and teasing me for all the times I’d been so harsh to him. Him telling me that it drove him up the wall, and he’d give me payback for that.

 

Or, maybe, he’s gentle. Sweet. He’d whisper compliments in my ear as he strokes me gently.

 

My eyes shoot open as I slowly pull my cock out of my pants, reaching into my nightstand and grabbing lube. I crack it open, pouring a bit into my palm before getting back to it.

 

That’s right; he’d be kind with me, like how he is around people. He’d ask if I’m okay with every little thing he does, telling me to stop him if I don’t like something. Of course I’d like everything, but I’d tell him to keep it slow and for him to kiss me until my mouth is sore. His hand would go over me with care, and I’d try to not go absolutely mad and fuck into it because he _can’t_ know I’m desperate, even while he’s got his hand around me. Even with his tongue in my mouth. Even with a promise on his lips that he’s interested and he wants it. I’d keep my composure, even if I’m teasing, because I want him to stay.

 

The grip on my dick loosens as I roll my hips forward, hand tightening up again as I pull back down and grind up into it.

 

Fuck. Maybe he’d rather me just grind against him without him touching me. Maybe he’s the kind who wants to see me get off for his pleasure.

 

I let out a groan as I rock into my hand, eyes squeezing shut more as my imagination works around it. The thought of Simon below me, encouraging me to grind against him and keep working myself silly. My cock leaks a little, dribbling down to my knuckles as I drop my hips and pant, grinding back up. With my free hand, I start unbuttoning my shirt and push it open. The hand trails up, rubbing my chest a few time before sliding across and rubbing my index over my left nipple.

 

Would he tease me then? He’d probably tease me. Rub my thighs, press his leg up to meet my somewhat controlled rocks.

 

What if he’d see me now, though? What’d he think? I’m here, trying to get every moment’s worth of my own hand around my prick and fucking into it like I’m an uncontrollable teenager again. Unravelled into a whimpering mess. I feel my cheeks grow warmer as I press my hips up, panting into the room and losing control over myself. Fuck. Simon’s fucking face and his stupid fucking smile and his little smirk when he’s trying to be clever and that fucking laugh of his, the stupid fucking arseholic little brilliantly captivating--

 

I gasp as I come, holding my hips up in the air as my thigh muscles go stiff and shaky. The edges blur around me as my eyes push open, glancing down at my stomach and slowly lowering myself back down onto the bed, arms flopping to my sides with a dribbling pool of my own come splattered on my stomach and chest.

 

The breath huffs out of me in bursts, my heart still thundering as I reach drearily towards my tissues and clean myself off, shedding my shirt on my bed before hauling myself to the shower.

 

Great. Didn’t quite work, because I’m still thinking about him, trying to hold onto my fleeting thoughts of his afterglow. He's probably the cuddler type; the one who'd hold you close and call you his universe.

 

I shudder. Somehow, the thought of being loved is more erotic than the thought of being fucked. It's orgasmic; the hovering concept of being loved so tightly, so remorselessly, so unthinkingly is overwhelming to the point that it makes me want to wank to the thought of its validation. If I was being held, I'd probably be too blissed out to even care about anything but the arms around me.

 

And, of course, that is all I think of. His arms wrapped around my waist, my face in his hair. I'm lost in the world I’ve somehow hyped up in the back of my mind, making me crave release from my own feelings more than anything.

 

Maybe I should wank some more and see where that takes me.

 

Before I have the logical state of mind to actually make a good decision and tell myself that it might (only) make it worse, I have my hand around my dick and I’m going to town again.

 

It’s so much easier to allow my own denial over the clear obsession than to dwell on it. If I think about his shoulders while getting off, then that’s just how it is, and how it will be.

 

It takes a bit longer to get hard again, but once I’m at it, it’s hard to stop. I finish relatively faster this round, letting it wash down the drain before I scrub and rinse myself briefly.

 

Now, out of the blue, I realise that I've begun a challenge with myself. I’ll see if I can spend the week wanking to the thought of him to figure if it'll dull my feeling. If it works correctly, I'll get bored of thinking of him and when Friday rolls around, any problems I’ve had worked up will (hopefully) disappear.

 

It's quite easy to work through. I manage to get another one in before I pass out, and the next day brings great opportunities of solitude. Between the obsessive writing binge I've latched to due to the post-its, and the first of maybe two meals I'll eat in a day, there's plenty of time to make use of. And use I do; rutting against beds, fucking my hand, bringing dildos into the mix once when I was feeling extra festive. It's a successful Sunday’s work, putting me out and leaving me spent by the early evening.

 

I can’t say it wasn’t partially a failure, though. I'm still thinking about Simon.

 

The second and third day drift by, filling into my Tuesday evening where I’m to the point that I’ll be watching telly with my hand on my cock out of impulse. It’s ridiculous; I’m a horny teen again, and all to try to get rid of something I’m not even sure I want to truly stop thinking about. On top of that, I don’t think it’s really working. It’s just making me associate Simon’s smile with having to clean up after. It’s so much more depressing than it was before, I suppose, because I at least had dignity back then.

 

By Wednesday afternoon, I’m bored of my own challenge. It’s pointless, exhausting, and I end up thinking about him just giving me love and appreciation more than actually fucking me, which makes it worse.

 

I take the time to actually clean my flat, despite there barely being a mess (I don’t have the energy to make a mess of it). After wiping down every surface, sweeping the floor, and making my bed, I slump against the couch, picking up one of the books I’d bought recently, turning through the pages slowly.

 

The first few pages are a drag, but within them is my imagination, transporting me back to the bookshop’s loft with the sound of Simon’s pattering below me as I stare at words on a page. I try to focus on the memory of his footsteps and the innocence of his greetings every time the bell chimes. Everything about the setting feels right there. The smell of the ancient books, the creaking and cracking of the wood, the gentle rattle of the window panes. It feels like home.

 

I’ve go to go the shop. It’s been too long and it’s too empty here; too desolate.

 

The streets are relatively empty. Crowding from the after-work traffic hasn’t hit yet, and it’s too late for students to be flooding back to their homes. It’s peaceful. There’s no need to hastily make my way past a crowd, so I take my time, arriving at the shop in what feels like no time.

 

Inside, there’s a student wandering around in the side room and Ebb at the counter, but no semblance of Simon’s mindless chatter or incessant book reorganizing.

 

As I turn my head, Ebb already smiles and shakes her head. “He’s not in today, love. He’s out ‘til Friday afternoon. Something happened with a friend of his and he had to take a few days off.”

 

I let out a breath, shoulders dropping the weight I’d been holding. Head nodding and hands shoving down into my pockets, I drag my gaze back over the stacks of store picks.

“You don’t have to stick around, I know you come for him,” she continues. One would think she’s hurt, but the twinkle in her eye and smile creasing her face says elsewise. I act offended either way.

 

“Ebb,” I say, trying to sound accusatory, “I’m hurt by that.”

 

She tips her head up to me, face a tad sly. “Good.”

 

I roll my eyes at her before glancing at the stairs, looking over the spiraling staircase. “Can I ask an odd question?”

 

“Go for it, kid.”

 

“Why so many old books upstairs? Why the whole old sleep away school feel?”

 

Her eyes follow mine, a smile dancing at her lips. It’s borderline nostalgic. “Ah, you went to one, too?”

 

“My mum was a headmaster at one when I was little. She passed away before I even attended, but I did follow her footsteps there.”

 

“Dare I be nosey?”

 

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t mind. Wayford.” My eyes move to her face. “Doubt you’ve heard of it, awfully posh place.”

 

She’s smiling though, looking at me with wonder. “No… can’t be…” she says quietly. “Dear god, you must be her son… of _course!_ Always thought you’d looked so familiar”

 

It takes me a moment before realizing (I suppose I’m slow from barely using an intellectual mind for the past couple days). “You attended Wayford?”

 

“ _Attended?_ I _breathed_ Wayford. Your mum was a brilliant woman. A bit old fashioned in some ways, but never endingly cared for us.” She stops there, holding up her finger before reading at a shelf under the counter and pulling out a crewneck sweater, the Wayford crest stitched into the breast. “Still wear this to the day.”

 

I can’t help but reach out, running my fingertips over the embroidered crest. “I suppose you modeled upstairs after the library, then?” I ask, my voice quieter than I thought I’d let out. She just nods and lets me hold the jumper, my hand tracing over the shapes.

 

It’s the old one. A stripe was added for mum after the attack. The only other time I’d seen the original design was on Ebb’s old paraphernalia. Even then, she hides her mug away in the back of the cabinet, or her sweats on the bottom of her trouser drawer. She says she prefers the new design and doesn’t like overusing old shit, but I know that it’s because the old design makes her miss mum more.

 

“How’s Fiona been?” Ebb’s voice breaks through my thoughts, slipping through the cracked, stuffed-away memories. I immediately want to answer that she’s been Fi as she’s always been, but as I open my mouth to speak, I realise something else.

 

“Do you know my aunt?”

 

“Know her?” The way Ebb typically smiles isn’t how she’s smiling now. She’s on the verge of tears, trying to mask it with a lopsided smile. “We were thick as blood. She was my first kiss, actually. First…” She shakes her head. “We lost connection after graduation, and after Nicky went off the deep end. Don’t think she blamed me for what happened, but I don’t think she could handle seeing my face much, either.”

 

Nicky? Oh. _Shit_. That’s where I know her face from. “Are you his sister?”

 

She stiffens up a bit, eyes downcasted before squeezing shut. Shit, now she’s crying. “Nicky never mentioned having a twin, huh?” She sniffles, laughing sadder than I’ve ever heard anyone even attempt. “Fuck. Shit.” Her voice is barely audible,sniffling as she pushing her sleeves forward and catches the tears at the ends.

 

The other customer simply takes a look at us and leaves, making me feel a tad guilty (I’ll buy a book to make up for it). I’m awfully shit at comforting people, so I just lay my hand on her shoulder borderline robotically and say, “He doesn’t mention you much. He and Fi are sort of off-and-on, usually off when he refuses to be clean.” I don’t want to be insulting and call him a low-life arsehole with commitment issues and a drug problem he refuses to fix, but it feels heavily implied enough. My throat clears as I think of a follow up. Might as well jump back to the original question. “She’s Fi. Never quite ‘okay’, but she’s managing. Stability never suited her, anyway.”

 

She laughs at that, wiping her eyes again as she shakily takes a breath in. “Yeah, no. It didn’t, did it?” Her bangs fall into her eyes before she blows them away. Needs a haircut. Although, it’s entirely possible she does them herself. “It’s good to know she’s safe, though. She needs that.”

 

The ways she talks makes my hands go numb, eyes spacing out and tongue catching in my throat. I’ve heard those words before, from a different mouth and years ago. He looked at me in the bathroom mirror as he spoke to himself while the boy he’d been fooling around with for months just outside of the door with a girl around his arm, chatting up other with other old-money families at the club. The boy in the mirror spoke so silently, a death grip clenched around marble and stone and a wire-trapped jaw. He cried, too. Nobody else ever saw the lover-boy cry, but the mirror image staring back only made it worse.

 

My hand lifts from her shoulder and rests on the back of her hand, patting a few time before setting away back into my pocket. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, my apologies,” I mumble, pursing my lips. Ebb’s too kind of a woman to allow someone else’s self deprecation, though.

 

“Nonsense.” There’s still tears around her eyes, but no longer flowing down. “It’s good to cry--healthy. Nothin’ weak about a good sob-session.”

 

The inside of my lip pushes back, being held between my teeth. I’d beg to differ.

 

I bite that back and nod, exhaling and glancing around shop. “Do you need some company here?” I ask, soft as can be.

 

It all slots together, why I’ve taken such a liking to Ebb. She’s a slice of home; the loft’s her space, a little bite of who she is. She’s the old stone buildings and the scent of a century’s old rug. She’s the rattling window panes and the splinter from ancient dining tables. She’s the smell of the first-day bonfire and the laugh of the Leaver’s dance-goers. She’s like I hadn’t left.

 

“I never say no to people around me, but I understand if you’ve got somewhere else to be rather than sitting around with an old spinster like me.”

 

“Nonsense,” I retaliate back. “My day’s clear. You could put me to work and I won’t complain.”

 

She sniffles again, shrugging her arms. “You can set up camp here, if you want. Feel free to write.”

 

I’m borderline tempted to sprint back to the flat for my laptop, but it’d be a tad embarrassing to even have it enter the confines of Simon’s domain. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s easier to work at home.” My eyes dart around as I shed my coat, cuffing up the sleeves to my button down. “Put me to work.”

 

She laughs again, sniffling. “There are boxes in the back that need to be sorted and stocked…”

 

“Good, show me the way.”

 

We wind on back to the back room. It’s a cramped, dimly lit space with a break table, old radio, a few folding chairs, a punch in slot, a book cart, and a small pile of boxes. She gestures to them before curling her arms back towards herself. “You don’t have to do all four, but if you could start. I can even pay you.”

 

I raise my palm. “Count it as volunteer work. I don’t need pay. Especially since I rarely see other customers besides myself in here.”

 

She tuts and rests her palm against my forearm, sniffling once more. “Thank you, Mr. Pitch”

 

“Baz,” I say gently. “Call me Baz.”

 

She nods, the smile creasing the sides of her cheeks. “Thank you, Baz.”

 

She leaves me alone as I get to work, sitting on the ground after hauling two boxes beside me, unloading them and reorganizing them for shelving. It’s relatively easy and mindless to do; the cart’s loaded in what feels like no time, and I’m wheeling out and shelving with ease.

 

It’s dark before I know it, and Ebb calls to me from the front. “It’s closing time, dear.”

 

I’m breaking down the boxes as she says to, setting them by the disposal before making my way to the front and grabbing my coat. She catches my sleeve, slipping me a piece of paper. “For your aunt, next time you see her.” Her voice is timid, shaking a tad as she looks away. It takes every ounce in my body to not open it, but I respect her too much to break that sort of trust. Or, at least, while I’m here.

 

“I’ll give it over.” I smile tightly at her, bowing my head before ducking from the store.

 

On the way home, I lay the note in my inner-breast pocket and think over what I’m going to say to Fi. _“Hi Fi, do you remember Ebb? She’s sort of madly in love with you after all these years, and it’s an absolutely bonkers story. Can I come over to your flat?”_

 

I don’t do it tonight. I don’t do anything when I get home. I don’t touch my laptop, I don’t order in, I just strip down and lay back to rest. I’ve got to play matchmaker somehow.

 

When I wake up, it’s still a blank in my head as to how I’m going to even manage getting them to talk. I can’t just drag Fi to the bookshop, and I don’t know how to bring it up casually.

 

The time reads 8:57 in the morning. Fi usually isn’t up until at earliest 11. I have roughly two hours to come up with a plan to get them to talk and I’m absolutely clueless. The folded letter sits on my desk across the room, half the side turned up. I really shouldn’t; it’s an invasion of privacy. I really shouldn’t…

 

_Dear Fiona,_

 

No. I set it face down on the desk, closing my eyes and counting the steady inhales and exhales I take. This is a terrible idea.

 

_It’s been a long while, my dearest friend._

 

_I know that when we parted, it was a dark time in our lives (although, when is it not?) I’m not sure whether or not you’ll even wish to see me, but I miss our times together when the three of us were a trio. Sometimes, I just miss our duo._

 

_Sometimes, I miss us._

 

My throat clogs, making me stumble back to sit in my desk chair. It spins a little, drifting aside.

 

_Somedays, I wonder why you left. Others, I know why it couldn’t be. Most days, though, I just want you back in my life._

 

_With all the love that time will show,_

 

_Ebeneza_

 

She included her number at the bottom, a little heart drawn beside it.

 

I fold it back tightly, sliding the creases flat and tossing it onto my desk. I stare at it, letting myself calm back down. Fuck. My hand reaches for my phone.

 

“Why the _fuck_ would you call me so early?”

 

“It’s past nine, Fi.”

 

“ _Exactly._ ”

 

I sigh, fingers pressing and pinching my temples. “I’ve got something important, and it isn’t about Simon this time. I’m leaving for your flat in ten.”

 

The line’s silent for a second before Fiona breaks, groaning. “You better fucking get a large black coffee on the way here or else you’re staying locked out, you hear me?”

 

“Yes ma’am.” I hang up on her, not giving her the moment for a wise snap back before I launch myself up and prepare to head out the door.

 

I ring the buzzer with my elbow, leaning against it with two hot drinks in hand. She eventually lets me in.

 

When she opens the door, she’s in a ratty wife beater and loose sweats knotted at the middle to keep them from falling. Her hair’s stacked up on her head, the shaven side getting a bit shaggy. “What?” she demands after swinging the door open, staring daggers into me.

 

“Good morning to you too,” I grumble, rolling my eyes and pushing past her. I set the drinks on the kitchen table, slapping my hands down and watching her. “Why’d you ever stop talking to Ebb?”

 

Fiona blinks and stops mid-stroll, eyebrows knitting as a deep frown spreads across her face. “How’d you know about--”

 

I throw the folded-up paper on the table beside her coffee, locking eyes on her as I walk forward and past her to hang my coat. “You just _stopped_ talking to her? You had to know how she felt for you--it’s quite obvious, and you just stopped?”

 

She picks up the paper silently, lips twitching as she unfolds it and scans it once before stopping and starting to actually read it, then doing it again, then for a third time.

 

I ramble as she goes, though, working myself into a huff. “ _Now_ I see where I get it from, hm? Driving people off, going absolutely bonkers when I get all self-destructive and fuck some random bloke while I could actually be having some Prince Charming if I didn’t want to self-sabotage every situation I’ve ever encountered--”

 

“She remembers me.” Fiona’s voice barely raises above a whisper, cracking in the middle. As I turn to face her, she’s grabbing her pack of cigarettes and struggling with the lighter. She finally gets it to spark and lights the fag dangling from her lips. She blows it out slowly, eyes transfixed on the face-up note on her table. “I never… I thought she’d…”

 

My weight shifts from ankle to ankle as I stand, hovering from across the room. I can only see her from her washed-down profile, the window beside her casting the morning light in bright rays and darkening her figure nearly to nothing but muted shadows and a burning, red tipped cigarette.

 

She laughs and takes it from her lips, tapping it into her dish as her head turns towards me. Her hair’s like a black halo around her, outlined in fiery reddish undertones. “Take a seat, kid. I know you want answers.”

 

I drag the chair closest to me out, settling myself onto it as Fi takes another drag. She offers me the pack, but I politely decline. She sets it down on the table between us nonetheless. “So,” she says quietly. “Tell me what you know.”

 

I briefly go over what Ebb told me, leaving out the first kiss thing and the comment about just wanting her to be _safe_. Instead, I just go over the fact that I know that they used to be close, and that Ebb said Fi cut her off at the end of last term. Fiona just nods along, eyes etching the outlines of the table and chairs around us. After a few moments of contemplative silence between us, Fiona clears her throat and puts out the cigarette.

 

“Guess she left out our fling,” she mumbles before pushing herself more upright, slumping immediately onto her elbows on the table. “She was my first… whatever with a chick. I wouldn’t call it a relationship, because it wasn’t quite that. It was seventh year, Nicky and I ‘took a break’ for a bit, she and I got drunk in the Wavering Wood, then we made out for a couple hours. And then it happened again. And then like… six more times.”

 

“I think I’d call that something, Fi.”

 

“Shut it. As I was saying, we had a thing. We were a trio, the three of us. Wrecking shit, getting fucked up. Tasha fuckin _hated_ it, but she always had a soft spot for Ebb. Not really a natural troublemaker, that one, but she liked the thrill of everything, and she’s smart as hell too. Anyway,” Fiona takes a deep breath, glazing over the note again. “We never talked about what we were doing, we just did it. Then, when Nicky and I got back together, it stopped. And when we were graduating, I couldn’t take the guilt of letting Nicky know, so I never really mentioned what we did to him either .I thought it’d be kinder to let her go off and find success on her own while I fucked off and ruined my own life separately. I’d always figured she’d forget about me.”

 

I take a second, letting it run through my head. “What now, then? I mean, you and Nicky…”

 

“He’s off fucking who knows what. We’ve been off for a bit now.”

 

“Okay, then… call her.”

 

“ _Call_ her?”

 

“Yes, call her. Looks like she left her number.” I jab a finger into the paper, raising my eyebrows at her. “You know, like people do when they get an old pal’s number. They phone them.”

 

She seems to let that roll around in her head for a moment, lip twitching before snatching up the paper and grabbing out her phone, punching in the number. “You’re gonna have to go,” she monotones, finger hovering over the call button.

 

“I... _what?_ ”

 

“You heard me. My flat, my rules. Go home and write, or something. I want to do this call without your meddling.”

 

I huff a bit, stomping to grab my coat as I throw it on. “I don’t _meddle_ ,” I mumble under my breath, “I _scheme_.”

 

“Close the fucking door on your way out,” she shouts back as I step out. I slam it for the added dramatics.

 

I don’t hear from her for the rest of the day, which, evidently, seems to fly by. I manage to write a good chunk of filler scenes, drink the rest of a mostly empty bottle of cheap vodka while watching baking competitions on Netflix, and eat half a pizza before passing out on the couch. Relatively tame, given that I didn’t try to copy whatever the chefs were baking up. (That would’ve been an absolute disaster even if I was sober).

 

Come late Friday morning, as I wake up to a fully window-lit room, I figure that I might as well keep my consistency and show up to grab one of Simon’s Friday pastries.

 

In the shower, I contemplate jacking off, but I find it a bit too cruel to have a go right before I see him. Of course, it isn’t like he can sense it on me, or some shit, but it’s just courtesy to not jack your dick before seeing the bloke you fantasize about.

 

Maybe intentionally, maybe unintentionally, I dress up today. Not dress-up dress up--I’m not wearing a three-piece suit--but I’ve got a nicer button down and a blazer on, and matching trousers. And recently polished shoes.

 

I grab my nicer coat as I leave, buttoning the front two buttons and sliding on gloves as I descend the staircase.

 

It’s snowing again today. It’s still nothing more than a dusting, but it’s sparking some electric feelings around the city. For mid March, it feels a bit overdrawn.

 

The shop, though, is warm. It’s always warm. A radiator heating and at least three scented candles to a room makes a cosy spot in any building, but the warmth of a cute cashier makes everything better. And he is cute today, as cute as ever. He’s not reading, but rather working diligently at the computer, the flourescent light of the screen filling his face.

 

He notices me come in, grinning once the bell chimes. “Hello again. Here for the treat of the week?” He sounds like he’s joking, but I don’t want to inflate his ego by telling him that I am.

 

“Here for the business,” I mutter snarkily. I go to grab a book in the room, one I’d noticed a few days before while shelving that had piqued my interest.

 

He doesn’t make much of a sound until he speaks, but there’s a sweet tone to it. “Nice knowing that, being as I’m the one servicing that business.” When I look at him, his smile’s mischievous, and if I wasn’t a smart man, I’d say it’s flirtatious.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, book-boy. It’s the business overall, so my compliments to Ebb.” I punctuate it with a step on the staircase, immediately traveling up to avoid any further conversation.

 

I’m ready to drop two pounds in the basket before I notice the food of the day. Homemade teacakes, still warm enough that the plastic wrapped around it is steamedy. There’s a small tub of butter beside it, as well as a note in poorly scrawled handwriting that just says “Enjoy :)”.

 

I drop five quid in the basket and take two, slicing them in half and buttering them before grabbing my usual drink and taking a seat.

 

It’s odd how this loft violates my typical no eating in public rule. I’m typically a hardass about it, refusing to eat unless under specific circumstances, but here? It’s calm. Even sitting by the large windows, I shamelessly take a full bite out of the pastry and let the melting butter pooling on top drip into my mouth as the taste of bread and chocolate chips fills my mouth.

 

Polishing off one quickly, I sip away half my drink and tuck one leg under the other as I stare back out the window.

 

The snow’s sticking a bit today, but not too much. Some street poles and bits of sidewalk get dusted, and people’s hair are accumulating some flecks, but mostly it’s slushing on the road. The beauty of city weather; it’ll turn grey no matter how bright it falls.

 

About half an hour passes before Simon clambers up the stairs holding a stack of old books, humming what sounds like _Wake Me up Before You Go-Go_ to himself. It takes me a good few seconds of squinting across the room to realise that he’s got earbuds in.

 

He sorts slowly, taking his time to make sure each book’s got its place before making his way to the refreshments table. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he grabs a teacake, loading it with ungodly amounts of butter before stuffing half of it in his mouth. He notices me, though, and waves, barely managing to swallow before speaking. “How’d you like it? New recipe.”

 

“It’s a teacake,” I mumble blandly, knowing very well that there’s a pinkish blush spread across my cheeks. I try to ignore that. “What do you want, a prize?”

 

He scrunches his nose at me as if he’s just going to let it go. “I’d like some resemblance of a compliment from you, eventually.”

 

“I thought I’d given you one last week.”

 

His cheeks dimple when he smiles. “Don’t think I’d count that, but you have another shot now.”

 

Staring as blankly as I can muster, I blink slowly enough that I can see him squirm a little under my gaze. _Good._

 

“I don’t think I will,” I finally say, turning back to the window and gazing out forcefully.

 

Obviously, he either doesn’t take hints or doesn’t back down easily, because he’s leaning against the railing and watching me. “You took two of ‘em. I counted, since it was full earlier. The first one’s gone, but you’ve got another there.” I blush harder. “So you’ve got to at least like them to some degree.”

 

“Fine,” I snap, “it’s edible, and it’s a bloody miracle that you can count. Happy?”

 

“Ecstatic,” he hums before heading back down. Since when did he get so observational? And since when does he know the word ‘ecstatic’?

 

When I finish up my second cake (the bugger), I swipe my shirt as I follow him down to put the book back, noting that he’s typing away at the store laptop.

 

“Hey, um,” I hear from behind me as I’m sliding the book back. I don’t turn. “Thanks, by the way. I, uh, heard that you helped Ebb while I was, um, while I was gone. I’d just, uh, liked to say thanks. Means a lot. Felt bad that she was alone.”

 

With every word he stumbles over, I feel my heart tug more and more. Shit. Turning on my heel to watch him with his arm bent up while his hand rubs the back of his neck, smiling awkwardly. As I’m approaching the counter, he looks up and tries clumsily to get out more words, nose scrunching up with his nervous grin.

 

“Just… thanks.”

 

I stand still, staring at him silently as he shifts and wiggles in his spot. After a minute of silence between us, he reaches across and I flinch automatically. His hand stops mid air for a second before moving slower towards my face, thumb extended. It touches my skin, wiping something away from near my lip.

 

“You… you had something there. Wouldn’t want to leave it, would you?” He sounds unmistakably shy, which somehow makes me feel like a schoolboy in turn. As if I’ll make the wrong move here. As if I’d been the one who just touched his face.

 

“Thanks,” I say quietly, a bit frozen in the spot with his hand hovering inches from my face. He just _touched_ me. “I… I should get going.”

 

“Yes, yeah. Sorry, shouldn’t have stopped you…” his voice trails. For once, there’s something new to him; he looks unnervingly thoughtful. It’s an alien look for him.

 

I step back first, staring at him for a split second before making my getaway.

 

I get about a block and a half away before I realise that I’ve been walking much faster than I need to, but my heart’s thundering in my chest and not letting me breathe. It wants to leap out; it wants to sing and soar into the sky and scream that Simon Salisbury just touched my face and looked fucking _thoughtful_ while looking at me. Wonder of wonders, miracle of fucking miracles.

 

I’m racing home, slamming my door shut and locked before staring at my face in the entrance mirror. My hair’s all out of place from the sprint, fanned out and waving around the curvature of my cheeks instead of set back. My eyes look wild. I’m panting. I can’t help it. He touched my face.

 

The jacket on my shoulders barely makes it onto the coat hook due to my hands trembling. I’m barely functional. I step back, rolling on the balls of my feet a little as my hands fly up and cover my mouth, running up and through my hair to push it back. I breath in a burst or two, just muttering “Holy fuck” into the empty space. It stays around me, floating with each “Holy fuck” I utter after it. Why am I acting like this? Like a desperate addict who’s just gotten his fix?

 

Somehow, everything starts melting into anger. Why would I let that happen?

 

My blazer’s off, thrown into my closet.

 

Why didn’t I say something?

 

My shoes are thrown at the corner after they’re ripped off.

 

Why am _I_ so stupid?

 

My trousers pool at my ankles before I step out and kick them away.

 

This is fucking unfair. I could’ve just grabbed him and kissed him right there. I _should’ve_ just grabbed him and kissed him.

 

My shirt’s the last to go, flying off and slowly floating down onto the wood floor behind me. I sprawl out onto my bed in just my pants and socks, staring at my ceiling.

 

He was so close, and his hand was right on me. Shit, he’d been acting so odd. I could’ve done something and denied it later, because apparently I’m a self-rejective and relationship ruining arsehole who’d wreck any chance he has and use others for his own advances--fuck! I’m a selfish bastard!

 

I bite the back of my hand, shakily trying to force myself to breathe through my nose as the situation plays through, warping it around and manipulating my mind to make me the bad guy. And that’s all I’m allowed to be; the bad guy. I shouldn’t be allowed my own story with a happy ending and a prince charming, especially when I wonder why I didn’t try to use his probable altered mental state due to friend emergency followed by his clear consciousness change following it to my _advantage_.

 

I’m not worth it. I’m not worth any of it.

 

My eyes squeeze shut, jaw letting go of my fist as I gasp for air and punch my fists down into the bed while slamming upwards to stare at my wall.

 

I’m out of hand. This is out of hand. This… _everything_ is out of hand. The emotions, the _caring_. I loathe it with every fibre of my being, with every ounce of my conscious mind, with my--

 

My phone pings in my trousers, then pings again seconds later.

 

It takes a few minutes, but I drag my pathetic body enough to reach down and grab it out.

 

**From: Fi**

**To: T.B.**

 

_thx kid x_

 

_i owe yah onr x_

 

There’s nothing around me to wipe my face with, so I just use my bare arm to clean the mess of tears and snot running from my face enough to let me read the words. It hits me what’s happened, who she’s spoken to, and a little weight lifts off my chest.

 

**don’t mention it**

 

Throwing my phone onto the bed, I let my shoulders slump and back curve as I stare at it sitting atop of my sheets face-up. I must look depressing. I feel depressing.

 

I shouldn’t go to storytime tomorrow; he won’t want to see me. He shouldn’t see me like this, especially in the state I’m in. But, then again, Ebb’s bound to be there. I want to know, I want to figure this out. If not for me, for the two of them. If I’m not happy, I’ll be better off knowing they’re both happy.

 

I go to take a piss, but just curl up on the bathroom floor after finishing. All the energy went off and drained from me. I feel like shit for just existing, and the floor is cold enough to make me feel somewhat alive, so that’s a comfort. I don’t know how long I’m down here, but it’s for a while. Long enough that I only get up because my stomach’s growling.

 

I eat the other half of last night’s pizza in silence, sitting on the ground in front of the telly, instead of the perfectly good couch, and putting on some random nature doc as I shovel slice down my throat to quiet my body.

 

Maybe I’d be fine as eternally single. Sadness might suit me, after all.

 

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake up around 3 am on the floor with pizza crusts spread out in front of me, the telly still on at a barely audible volume.

 

The bed’s always emptier when you hate yourself. There’s so much space to recognise that you’re alone, and that might be for a reason. It’s nice to spread out, though, and cuddling your pillows is more acceptable when nobody’s there to accuse you of stealing them.

 

Maybe I’m just making excuses for my own loneliness. Maybe I should just stop thinking.


	3. how do you even like me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because it’s not.” You’ll hate me for it. “It’s silly, and not quite good.” I’m sorry, Simon. “Might just end up scrapping it all together.”
> 
> Simon’s clearly incessant, as he presses on. “I want to see it anyway, please? I swear, I’ll do anything. It’s just eating me alive.”
> 
> This is it. I must’ve gone absolutely, undeniably mental, because I’m looking at this man and seriously considering bringing him to my flat to show him what I’ve done. It’s like bringing police to your crime scene and shouting “Right here, officer! This is where I stabbed him to death, and here’s the murder weapon!” I’m digging my own grave, and at this point, there’s absolutely no way that Simon will take ‘no’ as an answer.
> 
> -
> 
> Simon finds out.

When I wake up again, splayed out on the mattress, my back doesn’t hurt as much. My heart does, though.

 

It’s late. Later than I was last week.

 

I don’t rush, reminding myself that it’s for Ebb and not Simon.

 

It’s for Ebb, not Simon.

 

It’s for _Ebb_ , not _Simon_.

 

I step into Counting Sheep to see Ebb on her mobile, texting with a grin across her face, and I immediately relax. The usual Saturday ambiance of Simon’s readings is going on in the back, but Ebb’s clearly caught up in whoever she’s conversing with.

 

“Ebb?” I interject, standing in front of the desk. She jumps a little, looking up as she clenches her chest and gasps before practically cackling.

 

“Didn’t see ya there!” She exclaims, grinning ear to ear (as she should be).

 

A comfortable smile, which is to say, not a big one, rests against my cheeks as I nod to her. “Good morning, Ebb. I see you’re a bit busy with something there, hm?”

 

She turns her phone over quickly, face down on the countertop as she straightens herself up. “Oh, you know, just catching up on old times.” She looks happier now. More at peace. Good.

 

“I take it that you and Aunt Fi are getting along well?”

 

I swear I see her blush. Maybe I’m still mad, though.

 

“I’d say so, yes. Why? Did she mention me?”

 

“Actually, no. Radio silence from her, which is a bit odd.” I wink at her, knowingly. She wacks my arm playfully.

 

“Don’t--no! I’m not... oh, shut it. She and I are talking a lot, that’s all.”

 

My nose scrunches as I shrug. “I’m aware, I just like to tease my aunt about her life, so I suppose you’re an extension of that now. Welcome to the family.”

 

She definitely blushes at that, her eyes casted down onto the countertop. “Happy to be back,” she says quietly before glancing to the children's room door. Inside, Simon's got a crowd captivated with a story about a pirate, to which he goes to the extent of giving the accent and wearing an eyepatch with his foam sword.

 

Fuck, now I’m imagining him in old pirate garb, unbuttoned shirt with chest showing and all. I feel like I'm gonna swoon.

 

As the minutes tick on, it’s definitely sounding like he’s nearing the end. The book pages turn and reveal so few left. Great, means there’s so little time for me to either plan my escape or try to find my innocence. Ebb must see my searching eyes, though, because her tutting is louder than my thinking.

 

“Here,” she sighs, “I need to go to the back for a call with our shipping company, take over the counter, would you?”

 

I stare at her, looking over the desk. “I suppose…”

 

“You’ll be fine. Simon’s done in a snap. He’ll take over.” She pats my arm, scooping up her phone as she hurries over to the back room.

 

Sliding behind the counter is a bit more intimate than I’d care to admit. Back here, I can see all the little intricate intimacies of Simon and Ebb’s lives. There’s a little cloth binder with notes stuffed inside marked “SIMON’S RECIPES”, as well as a ziplock baggie of cookies laying beside it. There’s sheets of stickers and post-its of back and forths between Ebb and Simon. It’s clear in some of them that that Simon sarcastically refers to Ebb as ‘mum’. Various stacks of papers, little fidget trinkets, a metal water bottle with miscellaneous stickers on it. Even Simon’s backpack is set underneath the computer, unzipped but pushed closed.

 

The seat beneath me sighs as I sit back on it; the cushions ought to be old and worn. The whole store, despite only opening maybe two months ago, feels old and worn in the most comforting way possible.

 

As my hand slides over the wooden countertop, brushing the large plastic mat in the middle, I hear the claps of Simon’s conclusion and I perk up, peering inside and noting that this is a much worse view than from the other side. Despite that, I’m still gazing inside wistfully as he chats with people, shaking hands and ruffling heads of hair. If I ever forget _why_ Simon’s such a hero, these moments that remind me.

 

For a moment, I try to busy myself--straighten the small boxes of trinkets, sort through which pens work and which don’t. It doesn’t occupy enough time, though, seeing as Simon’s standing at the other side of the counter within the next few minutes, and I have nothing left to mess with.

 

He’s got a playful smile going, arms crossed and leaned down onto the counter. I lean back in the seat automatically, glaring down onto him through my eyelashes as my nose turns up into the air.

 

“Didn’t know you were looking for a job,” he quips. Is he really capable of playful humour?

 

“I’m not. Ebb asked me to take over.” My arms cross defensively, hanging low on my chest as I sit up straighter.

 

He huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. “It’s a shame then. I would’ve liked to see you everyday.” _Hang on, was that a…_ “Although, I do see you plenty of times a week. Even on days you don’t really have a reason to be here. Why is that?”

 

For once, he’s got me dumbfounded. “Well… I-I…”

 

He smirks (holy fuck), his tongue flicking out and wetting his lips before he stops my pathetic attempts at a cover up. “Tell you what, are you free right now?”

 

“I… I…” I stutter, blinking. This _can’t_ be happening. “I’m… covering for Ebb…” That’s all I can manage out, and it comes out as some pathetic whisper. All my confidence, every ounce of ‘coolness’ drained out of me, leaving a blithering mess.

 

He laughs though, as if _he’s_ the cool one now, and grins at me. “I meant after she gets back, won’t take too long. How does lunch sound?”

 

“Sounds spectacular,” I say, immediately wanting to hit myself for it. Who the fuck says spectacular?

 

It’s clear, though, that my peculiar word choices aren’t affecting him because he keeps on pushing through, smiling like I’m not the worst person to have a conversation with on the face of the earth.

 

“Good. Then you can tell me all about why you come in so much.”

 

If I didn’t have any self control, I’d just grab his face right here and snog him senseless. He’s close, _so_ close. If I were sitting upright instead of leaning back, he’d be in breathing distance.

 

As my mouth slowly pushes open to answer, the door to the back room swings open as Ebb starts out, stopping right by the door and smiling at us. Both Simon and I stare over at her and I swear I’m blushing up a storm.

 

I practically leap out of my set, scurrying around to the front of the counter beside Simon as Ebb plops back down into her seat. “Thanks for taking over for me, love,” she says before turning her attention to Simon. “Are you taking off for the rest of the day.”

 

“If you don’t mind,” he grins, taking off the costume-y parts of his outfit. “I might be occupied for the rest of the day.” I want to scream. I want to know who he’s talking about in particular. I want to--

 

“You coming?” he asks. I must’ve spaced out, because he’s gone around the counter and grabbed his backpack and water bottle. I nod enthusiastically, letting him lead me out as I float behind him.

 

Is this a dream? I pinch my arm, wincing slightly as I swallow the lump in my throat. Nope, not a dream. I’m awake. Very much awake.

 

Maybe this is a friendly thing? A friendly “let’s get lunch and talk” thing, rather than a “I’m going to take you back to my flat and fuck every answer out of you” sort of thing.

 

I look over at him, tracing the outline of his face while his gaze is locked forward.

 

I let my attention drop down to his hand. He’s got an open palm, swinging his arm slightly slightly out in the open. If only I was so brave to reach out and grab it…

 

He stops abruptly in front of a little sandwich shop. He turns to me with a grin, extending that bare hand. “This place good?”

 

I simply nod, leaving his hand untouched as I grab the door and swing it open, leading us in.

 

Inside, he takes the lead again, pushing past me gently and practically bouncing up to the counter, greeting the kind looking woman behind it. They chat briefly about the weather before he orders, followed by my brief order of just a drink. I start to pull out my wallet, but he’s pushing cash over before I can even get my card out.

 

He takes a number card, leading us to a booth nearby and sliding in so that he can see the door. His bag rests in the seat beside him, but his attention is drawn onto me as I slowly let my jacket fall from my shoulders and pool around me in my seat. My left hand raises up to my forehead, pushing my hair back and trying to swallow away whatever feelings are left in my body.

 

“So,” he begins, hands folded and set in front of him. “Will you tell me why you’ve been coming into the shop so much? What’ve you been plotting?”

 

I scoff at that, trying to desperately cover the nervous look in my eyes. “ _Plotting?_ Don’t flatter yourself, Salisbury. I don’t have a ‘plot’.”

 

He lets himself smile all relaxed, sitting back in the booth and eyeing over me. “So,” he says slowly enough to draw the emphasis, “you’re going to tell me that you go into a bookstore at least twice a week for, what, the ambiance?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Simon licks his lips, watching my hands. Immediately, I stop fiddling with the tablecloth, which I must’ve been doing absentmindedly. “Why is it that I don’t believe you.”

 

“Because I’m a stranger, and people don’t trust people they don’t know.”

 

“I know you.”

 

“Do you now?”

 

His chin juts out a bit as he squints at me, hoodie sleeves drooping as his hands raise up then fall back to the table. “I know your name, I know you’re a writer, I _know_ you like my baking, and I know that you stare at me when you think I don’t notice. So what gives, man?”

 

Every possible intelligent answer is long gone now. Now, at this moment, I’m just staring at this boy, this scruffy faced, tired eyed, somewhat muscular but also soft boy, and my heart’s pounding like it would when I was 15.

 

He makes me want to just reach out and touch his face and tell him everything.

 

I nearly do.

 

Thank fuck for the woman bringing over his sandwich and our drinks, setting them in front of us. Although, Simon’s gaze doesn’t break, the smile playing at his lips still pulled aside as his head tilts to his right.

 

We’re on a new topic now, thank fuck. “Why didn’t you order anything else?”

 

“I’m not hungry.” Not quite a lie.

 

He doesn’t take that as an answer, though. “Are you sure? It’s on me. I’ve got you.”

 

“I have plenty of money, thank you very much. And no, I’m not hungry.” The paper straw sitting on the table is in my grasp as he watches my movements. Jabbing it open, stabbing it through the top, and sipping aggressively.

 

He shrugs instead of answering, grabbing hold of his overly stuffed sandwich and shoving it into his mouth, eating like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. It isn’t my first time being treated to Simon’s eating show, but it feels way too intimate now. Feels way too much like a date.

 

“What is this?” I demand, keeping a straight face as he raises his eyebrows at me, thankfully wiping his face on a napkin (at least someone taught him manners).

 

“What’d’ya mean?” he asks innocently, puppy dog eyes staring up at me from a table’s length away.

 

I exhale slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose as my other fingers tap against the table. Stupid, stupid. “I meant…” I say slower, swallowing my pride as I pause. “Why are we here, getting lunch, _together_? Do you have nothing better to do than to hound me about my own life decisions?”

 

“I-I mean… I…” He sits up more, hand dropping his foot back into the basket. “I… shit. Fuck, don’t get mad at me, okay? But I… I asked Ebb what you business was and she said you were writing something, and she refused to tell me anything _but_ that, so I just… I wanted to try to get you to tell me, and I thought that being nice and taking you to get lunch would get you to talk to me like you weren’t going to rip my head off and--”

 

“You don’t want to know what I’m writing.” It comes out less murderous and more sad, nearly dropping to a whisper. “It’s just for fun, it isn’t anything serious.”

 

“I doubt that. You’re a brilliant writer, Baz.”

 

Fucking hell, I’m blushing again. “It’s… I can’t.”

 

He blinks at me. “Wha-why not?”

 

“Because it’s not.” You’ll hate me for it. “It’s silly, and not quite good.” I’m sorry, Simon. “Might just end up scrapping it all together.”

 

Simon’s clearly incessant, as he presses on. “I want to see it anyway, please? I swear, I’ll do anything. It’s just eating me alive.”

 

This is it. I must’ve gone absolutely, undeniably mental, because I’m looking at this man and seriously considering bringing him to my flat to show him what I’ve done. It’s like bringing police to your crime scene and shouting “Right here, officer! This is where I stabbed him to death, and here’s the murder weapon!” I’m digging my own grave, and at this point, there’s absolutely no way that Simon will take ‘no’ as an answer.

 

“Get a box for your food,” I mumble, pulling my coat back on and looking anywhere but at him.

 

Within 30 seconds, we’re out the door and he’s practically bounding down the street, box in hand and a grin on his face. This walk is slower than my usual one home, trying to buy mental time before my big collapse. I wonder how he’ll react. Creeped out? Angry?

 

The walk’s silent. I don’t think either of us wants to utter a word and ruin whatever moment’s about to happen; he’s clearly more hopeful of something he definitely won’t see. He’s _definitely_ not ready for what he’s about to see.

 

My keys scrape shakily against the locked door to my flat, getting us in after a minute or two of awkward metal clashings and angry mumbling on my part.

 

In daylight, it’s shockingly easy to tell that I live alone. Some call it minimalism, I call it lonely. Everything’s still neat and clean from the other day to the point that my flat looks like a fucking catalogue. He’s going to think I’m a fucking nutcase just on first impressions alone.

 

I hang my coat silently, letting him step inside and peer around. “So… you actually live here?”

 

“Why else would I have the key here, Salisbury?”

 

He just shrugs, peering around the living space. “I dunno. It fits you, though.” His whole body turns to face me, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. “It’s sort of where I’d imagine a modern vampire to live.”

 

I snort, tossing my keys into the glass bowl. “Food in the kitchen then follow me.” I definitely sound too soft, too domestic.

 

“Woah, wait, where are we going?”

 

“My bedroom.”

 

He’s setting his box onto the counter as I speak, stopping in his tracks and laughing. “Take me on another few dates, then we’ll see.”

 

 _Another?_ “Everything’s on a layout in there,” I grumble, pushing the door open and heading in a good few moments before he joins. I take a preemptive seat at the desk chair, wheeling halfway across the room for impact as he steps in, hands folded on my lap and legs crossed.

 

I gesture forward, fingers pointing at the post-it layout. His eyes seem to drag over to it in slow motion. In fact, all time seems to slow to a near stop, my heartbeat rattling in my ears as he stands in front of the extended storyline, reading each and every one in eerie silence.

 

It keeps like that for a long while, the air in the room nearly impossible to breathe as my judgement day rains upon me.

 

The sound of his lips opening and breath flooding in fills the space between us. It’s nearly too much; it _is_ too much. I need to run. I need to hide. I need to--

 

“That’s… actually really cool,” he says quietly, leaning closer to get a good look at the beginning. “Is this… I’m assuming… is Simon like...?”

 

“You? Yes.”

 

He laughs to himself, rubbing a hand over his stubble as he squints at each note. After a silent minute, he turns on his heel and looks at me.

 

I’m fucking sweating. A bead rolls from my forehead as he approaches me slowly, kneeling directly in front of me and studying my face. “What’s… with the ending part, though?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

His hands reach out, laying on my thighs. It feels like he just put a live wire to them, sparks running down my legs and into my bones. “You know the part.”

 

“What part?” I whisper, feeling his face move closer and closer as my blood thunders in my ears. I don’t pull back, I don’t press ahead. I just stare.

 

“‘ _And he kisses me’_?” he utters, a hand moving to my cheek and setting that on fire as well. My whole body’s filled with flames, licking up to heat my cheeks and tips of my ears. “And you’re gonna tell me you weren’t plotting something?”

 

I give him the chance to pull back, to run away. If there’s ever a time to do something, it’s now. “Not plotting, more like wishful thinking,” I breathe. His head’s tipped forward, lips just close enough to taste, if I only just leaned forward…

 

And he does exactly what I’ve wanted him to do for _so long_ ; he kisses me, hand pushing up into my hair and keeping me here, locked against him.

 

I don’t push away, though. I don’t _dare_ move away. Instead, I grab him by the front of his hoodie, pulling him forward and into me and kissing him with everything that I’ve got.

 

Even as he starts to push himself off, mouth opening with the start of “Is this oka--” I’m already crashing back into him, flying forward and catching his mouth with my own. Hands grab around, taking fistfuls of his clothes and yanking him forward, pulling him closer into me. He’s not getting away from me, not today.

 

Not even as I slide off my seat and drag us onto the ground, despite the perfectly good bed just in reach. He’s not complaining, though, because his hands have already pulled my tucked shirt out and worked on the bottom buttons, hands exploring underneath it and gripping onto my skin. He’s a swirling mixture of rough and gentle. His hands grab and tug and pinch and press, but they also glide and stroke bits of skin, like the small part above the downturn of my hip.

 

His lips leave my mouth, but stay connected to me, feeling around my jaw, down my throat.

 

I’m not quite an innocent party, either. I make him stop, only for a second, to rip his hoodie and t-shirt off. He complies happily, throwing them halfway across the room before attaching himself back onto me. There’s more spots around him than I’d imagined, splattered across his back and chest, sprinkling his arms and peppering his shoulders endlessly. I trace them with my fingertips before taking hold of his sides and pressing him forward. At some point, he got my shirt fully unbuttoned, which he pushed aside to press our bodies together.

 

The golden cross hanging from his neck is cold against my skin, freezing to the point where I pull back and tug at it, glancing up to meet his eyes. Without a word, he takes it off and tosses it aside, leaning back to kiss me properly again.

 

I dissolve into him, not quite sure where he begins and I end, but I’m holding onto him for dear life as he slips his hands-- _oh_. He’s got his hands cupping my bum through my pants, trousers still on. Fuck those.

 

I push him forward, leaving him hovering above me on all fours as I quickly unbutton and unzip my trousers, kicking them off and across the room.

 

Here I am again, laying in my pants and socks like I was nights before. Except, this time, Simon’s hovering above me and grinning like he’s just uncovered the secret entrance to a lost treasure.

 

This time, it’s not my imagination as he grabs me by the hips and rolls us over, holding me on top as his hands grip at my thighs. I’m panting; I can’t help it. I’m hard as a fucking rock against him.

 

“Is this what you want?” he breathes, eyes meeting mine as one of his hands snakes around and moves to caress the inner part of my thigh, right below the hem of my pants.

 

He asks it as if he doesn’t already know.

 

“I want it all,” I whisper before I can stop myself, eyes wide and heart pounding. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

 

Simon’s tongue flickers out and this time I lean down to catch it, hearing him groan underneath me as I press my hips down slowly. Fucking brilliant. I do it again, this time a bit harder, and get an equally satisfying reaction. I keep going at it, shifting our hips together and grinding in unison with his shaking rocks. If he wants this, good. He can have it all.

 

Eventually, though, he stops it, mouth pulling back as his puffs of breath hit my cheek. “Bed… why… not?” he manages out, one hand tangled in the back of my hair as the other one’s got a death grip on my ass.

 

I can’t help but to laugh at him, mouth pressing to a mole right under his jaw before hauling us up and onto my bed. Unceremoniously, I fall back and glancing up with him, pants dampened and looking fully mad.

 

He’s not much better either, though. He’s clearly strained in his jeans and his hair makes him look shagged already.

 

“Well?” I muse, slowly sitting up.

 

All at once, it hits me. He’s looking over me, suddenly a different person, suddenly panicked. He’s not some sex god about to break my bed over the course of the evening, but rather a nervous bloke in his mid-twenties with a hard on and probably no experience with another man. How could I be so naive?

 

I swallow my pride, hands dropping over my crotch as I stare up at him. “Do… you want to stop?”

 

He shakes himself from the trance, cheeks bright red and bottom lip pulled into his mouth as he chews on it. “What? No, no! I’m… it’s just…”

 

“Have you been with a bloke before?” It sounds silly to ask, especially as I drag it out slowly, but the shake of his head tells me that it’s going to be a full discussion.

 

He scratches at his neck as he sits down, eyes innocently casted away as he swallows all showily. “I only ever had one girlfriend, and we never… she was saving it ‘til marriage. I didn’t care, she just did and I--” His head turns to me, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows again. “Sorry. I’m rambling and you probably don’t want to listen.”

 

My hand reaches out, fingertips resting on Simon’s chin and tipping it down for him to look at me face on this time. “I’m not rushing you,” I say quietly, searching for the words as I’m speaking. “I want you, but I don’t need you now.”

 

Simon just nods innocently, eyes flickering down to my crotch and staying there. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I… can I try, though?”

 

“Of course. Do you need me to guide you?”

 

He shrugs, still chewing his lip. “A bit. I know how pricks work, I just… haven’t done this to anyone else.”

 

My heart picks up a bit as I nod, leaning forward and pressing my lips to his. He kisses me back in the brief moment that I stay before dragging my lips to the side, pressing them to his cheek, his jaw, to the mole under his ear before staying and whispering to him. “What do you want me to do?” I can feel his shiver, strong hands resting against my chest.

 

“Lay back.”

 

Compliantly, I sprawl out below him as he gets back up on all fours. In a flash, he’s unzipped out of his own jeans and wiggles out of them, letting out a sigh of relief before holding himself up again and looking over me. It takes a second of hesitation before he simply lays his hand on the front of my pants and strokes through the fabric.

 

Each of his movements are hesitant, like he doesn’t trust himself with my body. So I push myself up, leaning on my elbows and craning my neck to kiss him encouragingly. My legs spread, my lips turn up into a smile, and I let him push his hand under the elastic band.

 

His hand is warm and rough, calluses stiffening the pads of his fingers and spots of his palm. At first, I expect it to be a little uncomfortable, but he’s gentle with them. In fact, maybe a little _too_ gentle; he takes his time to work his hand slowly, kissing me a bit clumsily as his hand strokes.

 

I feel a bit guilty about pulling away, especially because of the look he’s giving me now, but I shush him with a brief peck of the lips before shifting further up on the bed and digging around for my lube. It cracks open and I take his palm, pouring a bit on before laying back where I was before. Right between his legs. “Okay,” I whisper. “You can go a bit faster this time. It’s okay, you’re not going to hurt me.”

 

With a simple nod, he uses one hand to pull my pants down properly this time before resting his lubed-up palm against my prick. He’s still a bit messy at first, but he shifts to sit beside me and works up a good rhythm. Suppose it’s a tad awkward at first, throwing me back to the first handjob I got in a broom closet. I don’t hate it, though. It’s a good first attempt, and just the fact that it’s Simon is making it significantly more enjoyable.

 

My palm rests against his chest as my jaw hangs open a tad, gasping on occasion. Slowly, my fingertips trail and push at the waistband to his boxers, meeting his eyes for an answer.

 

Enthusiastically, he nods, leaning across the space between us to kiss me before angling his hips closer. I carefully hook my thumb around his waistband, dragging it down enough to let him spring free. Our kiss breaks and I spit into my palm before tipping his chin back, kissing him as my hand slowly strokes up his cock.

 

What I don’t expect, most of all of this situation, is Simon coming in four strokes and then immediately apologizing after he finishes.

 

His eyes go wide as he tries to catch his breath, looking over me with a red face. “Fuck,” he whimpers, “I-I, uh!”

 

Despite my initial shock, I pull him closer and kiss his cheek, shaking my head. “It’s okay, darling,” I whisper, “don’t worry about it.”

 

He shakily nods, calming down and continuing to stroke me after a moment.

 

It doesn’t take long for me, his hand still going as I come. He lets it get on his hand and his stomach. It makes me blush, and I nearly open my mouth to apologise, but he immediately shuts me up with his, pressing me into the bed and kissing me like our lives depend on it.

 

I think I’ve finally figured it out; Simon Salisbury is an absolute sap.

 

Even as we lay here, spent and unclean, he’s snogging me senseless.

 

I do break it eventually, though, because I feel a bit gross. Granted, ecstatic, but mostly gross.

 

“M gonna shower,” I say, stumbling up onto my feet and hopping around as I pull off my socks. Gracelessly, I turn and face him while raising an eyebrow. “Are you gonna join me, or are you just planning on sitting there?”

 

He stumbles over some “um”s and “ah”s before nodding, stripping himself down fully and following me to the connected bathroom. At first, he looks a bit awkward, leaned against the wooden door, but he relaxes the moment I take his hand into mine. As I catch his eyes, he melts up into me and tucks his face into my neck, sighing.

 

With a tug of his hands, I mumble out a soft “The water’s warmed up by now” before letting him pull back and step into the shower before me.

 

He turns to face the water, standing directly under the stream. It melts my heart, making it patter faster. He’s so much smaller like this, gentle around the edges and infinitely existing in a space not overwhelmed by anything else. He’s unavoidable and so, _so_ impossibly close.

 

I let myself indulge in the moment, wrapping an arm around his waist from behind and capturing his wrist in my palm. Sliding my hand down, I take hold of his from the back and curl my fingers around his. He lets me spin him, facing each other as the water beats down onto my head. I’ve got to ask him, I don’t think I’ll be able to later.

 

“Why didn’t you leave when you found out?”

 

His hands slowly snake around my waist as I talk, not stopping until they lock around and hold me in place. At first, he just shrugs, making me want to simultaneously punch and kiss him, but then he finally speaks. “I’m not sure. It’s flattering, actually, to think that someone sees me being a hero. I’ve never really thought of myself so kindly.” His head rests against my shoulder, eyes shut as he keeps hold of me. I think he thinks I’m going to run, which is ridiculous for a number of reasons starting with the fact that this is _my_ flat. “That, and I’ve been sort of obsessed with you since you first came in, even if you were an outright prat.”

 

My hands curl around his biceps, head bowing down to meet his and simply pressing our foreheads together. “ _Obsessed?_ ” The chuckle that escapes his lips is so foreign. It’s painfully gentle, hitting me right in the chest and stopping my breath for a moment.

 

“I said sort of,” Simon murmurs, eyes shut and head tilted back so his nose brushes mine. “Don’t act surprised, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. I just came in your hand within a god-forsaken minute.”

 

Somehow an ungodly chuckle lets out through me, signifying that I’ve clearly lost all self control at the hands of this brilliant man in my arms. “I never thought of myself as that, but thank you for that description.”

 

The short huff of his laugh tickles my lips and makes my knees go all weak, and I remind myself that now, I suppose, is a point that I’ll get to kiss him. I do, not wanting to waste a second of this time with him pressed up against me. He sighs into it, thankfully, and leans up more.

 

We stay in there until the water gets cold, kissing our lips chapped and only breaking back fully to get somewhere else warmer. Or, at least, I’m complaining for somewhere else warmer. Turns out that Simon’s a personal space heater. We both towel dry in silence, heading back into my room where I grab fresh pants for the both of us.

 

Clearly, he’s got other plans, since he’s already taking a seat on my bed arse-naked.

 

“Ah- _hem_ ,” I enunciate, raising my eyebrows and tossing a pair of boxers at his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

Somehow, he manages a witty response as he awkwardly wiggles into the boxers without getting up. “Oi, what’s the point of them if I plan of having them off again?”

 

I flush, blinking shyly as I step into my own. While mocking his slightly early excitement would be quite fun, it might not be the best subject to bring back up if he plans on actually shagging instead of giving each other quick handjobs again. “More of a common decency than seduction. I think you’ve already fully seduced me, and it’ll be easier to talk to you if I’m not tempted to stare at your cock.” He chuckles at that, thankfully, in that syrupy sweet tone of voice.

 

His hand pats at the bare spot beside him, waving me over with the other one as he grins. “Talk to me, then.”

 

The bed dips as I lay on my side, slowly extending my legs out while propping up my elbow. I settle my head onto my palm, cocking a brow at him. “Fine,” I begin, “what do you want me to talk about?”

 

“Yourself.” He slides his elbows beside him, sitting up slightly and holding himself up closer towards me. I lean so that I’m practically hovering over him, staring down as he’s laying back with his face all shown and ready to be kissed. I can’t help but steal one from his cheek. “You’re _too_ mysterious. I want to know more about you. And I hope that you’ll actually answer now that you can’t run...”

 

“That’s awfully vague, isn’t it? What do you want to know exactly?”

 

He shrugs, sucking on his lip as he thinks. Visual thinker, this one is; you can see every part of his process splayed across his face as he contemplates what to say. “What’s your family and friends like?” he asks quietly, head turning as he stares up at my face. His eyes go ridiculously wide, borderlining on puppy dog as he stares at me. I’m a sucker for him.

 

I shift on my elbow, pursing my lips for a moment. “My family is complicated. My father and I are on a ‘holiday visit’ basis, and my mum died when I was young. I do have my mum’s sister, though. My Aunt Fi, who I’m ridiculously close with. I actually lived with her throughout uni, and now we waste our days away, drinking in early afternoons together.” One of my hands drops to Simon’s chest, resting against his heart and feeling it beat in my palm. “I don’t have an awful lot of friends. just two, really, so long as you don’t count my manager. Dev’s my cousin, actually, but our family gatherings were never the time to get _close_ to relatives, but just just a time to seem impressive to the other sides of the family. We both got shipped off to a public school, Wayford, per-family tradition, and we met Niall there. We’ve made a trio since.”

 

Simon’s silent for a second, studying my knuckles before breathing out a little laugh. “Should’ve figured you’re some public school tosser.”

 

Maybe this is why I’ve fallen for him; he makes me laugh. I’m laughing now, where I’d usually turn my nose up and make a snarky comment about how prestigious of a school it was and other bullshit to try to make myself sound more in control, but instead I’m laughing. He’s smiling at me, head turned aside and gazing up at me with a smile spread across his face as I laugh.

 

He’s the stars and the sun combined. He’s so indescribably warm and I’m spinning around him at thousands of kilometres an hour, wondering when it’ll all go wrong, because it’s got to. It always goes wrong somehow, because I’m not allowed such nice things for so long. Because I shouldn’t be allowed to just reach out and hold onto his hand, my lips feeling like they sit perfectly at the curve of his hairline.

 

“What about your dating life?” he whispers after we calm down. “I… I guess I mentioned mine. What’s yours?”

 

My face falls a bit as I shift, fingers interlocking with his. “That’s not necessary, is it?”

 

Simon shrugs, head lolling up so he’s flat on the pillow and gazing up at the ceiling. His curls play up and around his head, seeming to burst from the top and dance around my pillow case. I hope they’ll smell like him later. “Y’don’t need to, I’m just curious, that’s all. I’m no good at reading people, so I like hearing things from them.”

 

At first, I nearly toss away the subject and lie, saying ‘dates here and there’ to get him to shut it, but then it hits me. He wants this. He wants to talk because he wants this.

 

“I’ve had a couple of real ex boyfriends, then a handful of hook-ups since Uni, but that’s all. First boyfriend was a rough break up--they usually were. Daniell. We were in the same posh old-money family club, and he ended up going to Wayford too. When we got older, we’d sneak around, snogging in utility closets and hooking up in empty bathrooms. It was fun and wild and all the stupid shit you want when you’re 17, but then he broke it off and told me that he needed to end up with a chick if he ever wanted to inherit anything. I took it a bit rough, didn’t date much until Uni. Met Sam, we were on-again-off-again, never really settling but always promising each other that it’d stop, then he’d fuck me after a poetry slam session, making me read the ones I wrote about him while he was railing me. It was a bit odd, but then again, he was a psych major.” I grin, closing my eyes. “Wasn’t a terrible break up, just sort of, stopped. He said he wanted to move more North, I said leave, and he did. After all that, I did bullshit dating apps where men are dicks and only want to fuck then leave for their girlfriends after. Got exhausting.”

 

My eyes pry open to Simon laying back, hands folded on his chest and eyes on me. I go to open my mouth, to cover up the fact that I sound awfully sad, but his hand resting against my forearm silences me.

 

“You’re gay then, right?”

 

I laugh, breathing out as my head hangs. “Yes, I’m properly gay. Gay as they come, Salisbury.”

 

His head falls back to look at me, meeting my eyes as he softly says, “You don’t have to call me Salisbury, you know. Simon works.”

 

“I like Salisbury, though,” I protest, raising a brow at him.

 

“But nobody calls me that.”

 

I steady my arm before throwing myself over him, knees digging into the bed on either side as my arms rest beside his head to hold me up. “Exactly,” I whisper, “then it’s nobody’s word to use except my own.” I lean down halfway, hearing his breath hitch and making my chest ache twice as much. I grin. “It’s mine then, Salisbury, and that’s what I want. To be selfish.”

 

He closes the space between us, holding himself up to me long enough to let the kiss drag the rest of me down. His hands fly up, settling on my cheeks and curling around my face.

 

I let him take hold of me; I’ll let him do anything he wants to me.

 

I give him a bit of what I want, my hand finding its way to his chest and resting against his heart, feeling it beat in my palm. I feel it speed against me in the slightest as he gasps against my lips and makes my pulse jump with it.

 

One hand leaves my cheek, traveling down my face and resting flat against my own chest where my blood’s thundering through my veins and pushing through my rapidly beating heart. We break, staring at each other with pulses in hand and eyes as wide as the planets.

 

Then we go back, harder this time, more heated and desperate than before. His other hand travels away, gripping at my side and pulling me down impossibly closer. My hand settles at his hip and I slide my fingers underneath his waistband, stretching the elastic around the back of my palm. At the break of our mouths, he’s already moving on to the rest of me, kissing and nipping at the bottom of my neck and at my clavicle. I rock a little before flipping us over, planting my feet back on the bed and holding Simon by my thighs. He doesn’t protest in the slightest, though, traveling over my chest with his mouth. He stops at my nipple, giving it a gentle lick and teasing kiss as I squirm beneath him and grab at his hair. Thankfully, he doesn’t stop, letting me rut up against him while he jumps back and forth at my nipples for a minute, moving on to my navel and hips before stopping. He blinks, cautiously setting his palm over my cock and glancing at me for an answer. I can’t do anything but nod and whimper “Please.”

 

He pulls down my pants at a teasingly slow pace, leading out my cock as he glances up at me. Slowly, after his eyes flicker down at it and back up to me, he leads his mouth over it and licks up slowly, stopping at the head and flicking his tongue over the slit before pulling off and whispering. “I _really_ don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

There it is again, him making me laugh. This time, I suppose it’s a tad improper, but my arms reach down and cup his face, thumbs rubbing his cheeks as I shrug back at him. “It’s fine, nobody really does at first. Do you want to stop?”

 

He shrugs for an answer, one palm pressing to the exposed skin of my hip. “I don’t wanna give up. I wanna do this right.”

 

I let him go, shifting my hips and settling back. “Want me to look away then, so you can figure this out?”

 

His face grows pinker as he shrugs, fingertips tracing shapes on my exposed abdomen. “Fuck. I don’t know. Just… fuck. I’m gonna try again.” He shuts up, trying to seem as determined as possible as he licks up again, taking down my head before taking about half of the rest of me. His teeth graze me as he pulls back up, making me wince a bit and pat his head, my hand cradling his neck.

 

“Less teeth,” I whisper, my index finger spiraling around a curl.

 

I feel him nod before going to bob again, one hand closing around my base and giving me a few pumps on occasion.

 

It moves a tad slowly at first as he fumbles around and struggles to coordinate everything before he seems to get the hang of it, working a little faster and more confidently.

 

I gasp each time he does something right, tugging his curls when he’s wrong and moaning when he’s _definitely_ right. It’s a bit more drawn out than most of the blowjobs I’ve ever gotten, and probably the most attention I’ve ever been given, but somehow it’s probably the best I’ve had so far because it’s Simon and he’s trying his best just for me. It makes it infinitely more intimate, and by the time I’m ready to come, I tug his hair enough for him to get the message. He idiotically ignores me, letting me come in his mouth before he cringes and gets up to spit it out.

 

I listen in on his laughter and mumbles of “shit” coming from the bathroom. The sound of his laughter’s more than enough to make me smile, my head turned to see him pad out all blushing and flustered. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting between my legs. “Didn’t expect that.”

 

“What’d you expect, candy?”

 

“Not exactly, but it just threw me off guard, that’s all.” He flops down beside me, face up and clearly hard in his pants.

 

On impulse, I reach out and wrap my hand around his clothed prick and start stroking. Impulsively, I press face into his neck right at the spot of one of his moles, peppering kisses down and leaving a nice, clean lovebite to his lower neck. At first, he’s sputtering out “Oh”s and “Shit”s, before I stop, pulling my hand off and sitting up.

 

“Is this okay?” I ask, clear as day. “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”

 

He stares blankly at me, pupils blown as his head shakes. “No, fuck no, _please_. Keep going.”

 

My lips turn up before I dive back into the crook of his neck, hand pushing under his pants and stroking him teasingly before I kiss my way down and take him in, immediately bobbing my head down and pulling up slowly. His hands take to my hair, holding fistfuls as I work on him. My hand cups his bollocks, sucking sharply as my palm rolls and his hips jerk slightly. I hum at my handy work, trying to coax him to thrust up again as I let my mouth soften and throat relax. He gets the hint and rocks up into me, lasting quite longer than he had before.

 

When he comes, I swallow it (mostly because I don’t quite feel like walking all the way to the sink) and pull off as showily as I can manage, his hands still clenched in my hair. He loosens the grip, though, and tugs me up to kiss him.

 

I sigh against him, letting his hands hold my waist and keep me there--keep me as his, if only for the time being.

 

I wonder how long he expects this to last. Tonight? A week? A month of rolling around until he gets bored of me?

 

We both let back eventually, falling into a half-awake, completely silent cuddle.

 

So that answers one thing, he’s a cuddler. Even after his seemingly ongoing uncertainty with his actions, he seems sure as hell to be here with me now. It’s a relief and a fucking curse.

 

The opening of his mouth? A curse. Without his voice even touching the air, I still feel all my nerves sparking at the edges with the fear of what he’s going to say now. The fear of how much he regrets it and the fear that he’ll change his mind.

 

“Mm kinda hungry,” he mumbles instead, leaving his eyes shut. “You?”

 

“Suppose I am.” My nose turns towards his skin, sinking deeper as I press my face against him. “Why, what do you want?”

 

He pauses, going quiet for a minute before saying. “I dunno. Something loaded with carbs.”

 

I snicker and sit up, hands scrubbing over my face. “I can get some take out. There’s a good Chinese place a couple blocks away that delivers to me for free.”

 

His fingertips dance at the exposed lower part of my back as he yawns. “Sounds good. I’ll take anything.”

 

 _Of course he will_. I lean back into his touch nonetheless, grabbing around for my trousers before realizing I’d flung them halfway across the room. Unceremoniously, I stand and go to fish out my cell, unlocking it. “Is there anything you want in particular?”

 

He’s sprawled out on my bed now, a hand pushed through his hair and tugging slightly as he shrugs. “Lo mein is good.”

 

I dial as I sit back onto the bed, one hand rubbing my thigh as I quickly exchange information with the employee. Something presses to my neck as I hang up, and I turn to see Simon’s face nuzzled against my skin, eyes shut and mouth partially open as he breathes. He looks a bit spent in the cutest way possible, practically dozing off on my shoulder.

 

“Hey,” I murmur, nudging him, “are you falling asleep on me?”

 

His eyes half open and he yawns. “Mm? What? No, ‘m just restin’, that’s all.” His eyes flutter shut as he grins at me, arms still set on my sides. “Gotta stay up for food.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so absolutely motivated by his next meal.

 

Our bodies shift, mine turning around as he scoots closer and practically collapses on my lap while digging his nose into my stomach. He sighs, mumbling incoherently.

 

My fingers drag underneath his chin, pulling it up. “What was that?”

 

“This is nice,” he whispers, wrinkling his face up to me. “I like it.”

 

Oh. That’s good. “Good. That’s good.”

 

He hums gleefully in response, faceplanting back into my skin and resting there comfortably. Hesitantly, I wind my hand into his hair and comb through it slowly, working my fingers through and brushing it back each time.

 

The time seems to fly by, the knocking at my door coming so soon after I’ve ordered.

 

I get up, throwing on clothes and brushing a kiss to Simon’s forehead before answering the door to sign and grab the bags, shutting it and exhaling.

 

“Come out here. No eating in my room,” I call, pulling the folded boxes out of the bag and opening them with care. He groans, but it only takes a minute or so for him to come back out with his pants on and lean his elbows down onto my island.

 

Containers crinkle and wood snaps between us as we stand quietly and start eating, facing each other comfortably. My hand instinctively moves over my mouth, covering it as I chew. It draws his attention after a few minutes, squinting at my shielding palm and clearing his throat.

 

“What’s with that?”

 

I chew the rest of my bite, swallowing before narrowing my eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“You cover your mouth when you eat.”

 

My gaze falters as I shift, hand still cupped over my face as my lips twitch. “Instinctive,” I grumble, “just drop it.”

 

He pouts a bit. “But why?”

 

“Because I’m self conscious, okay?” I should feel a tad bad for snapping at him, but it does feel an awful lot like he’d egged me on. I exhale, trying to reset my thoughts. “I… had a hard time when I was little with liking myself, so I’d hide a lot of everything. Just sort of stuck.”

 

He stops the shoveling of his food down his throat for a minute as I speak, swallowing his last bit and dropping his chopsticks before reaching out and taking my hand. Delicately, he wraps his fingers in place around mine and locks our hands together. “There,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to think about it, now.”

 

I want to tell him that it doesn’t quite work like that and that I’m not ‘cured’ from decades of self-loathing, but the look across his face isn’t something I’d like to ruin right now. So I drop it, picking up another bite and setting my eyes down to the countertop as I eat, feeling his hand squeeze mine.

 

Time’s relative, I suppose. The only thing that’s real right now is his skin up against mine and the way he’s smiling so absentmindedly that it makes my brain hurt. I could spend a century like this; I could die like this and I wouldn’t mind at all.

 

“Are you staying the night?” I let myself ask, voice only loud enough for the space between us.

 

“If you’ll have me.”

 

My face warms, hand going numb as I indulge myself in his gentle words. “I’d always have you,” I murmur, lifting up to my tiptoes to lean across and peck his lips.

 

There’s a growing list of things that I want to bottle up and seal off forever. The top of that list has permanently become Simon’s laugh.

 

“Are you finished yet?” he asks between giggles, nose scrunched.

 

I could’ve had a single bite and called myself done if he asked me that so sweetly before.

 

“Yeah, let me clean up. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.” By the time I’m turned to the sink, his footsteps are already growing further before I hear the sag of the springs beneath him. My hands itch, mind racing through whatever we’ve _been_ doing and whatever we’re _going_ to be doing. It swarms me, making me feel numb and electric and so, _so_ alive all at the same time.

 

I stand at the doorway, watching him wadded up in my pile of blankets. It’s all so overwhelming and so, _so_ there. He’s so close I can touch him, so close that I can lose him.

 

“Are you coming back to bed?” He’s so stupidly confident. I’m so stupidly in love.

 

I wriggle in beside him, palms pressed to his bare skin and mouth finding its way onto his neck, trying to kiss and suck more laughter out of him. He gives it to me, squirming and snorting beneath me as his arms clutch to mine and drag me closer.

 

The room sinks into a darkness around us, filtering in only streaks of street lights and the occasional rolling light of a car crossing by. His skin glows in the nightlight, eyes growing heavy, yet the small tugs at my skin by his lips and hands tells me that he’s not ready to rest yet. Something in him isn’t letting him take a break. I’ll need to give it to him myself.

 

I yawn as his teeth graze my collarbone, causing him to sit up and loom over me. “Tired?” he says delicately, hands letting go of my weight and tracing shapes around my chest. I nod.

 

“We’ve been at this for hours.” My palm reaches up, cradling his cheek. The moonlight traces the slow movements of his head as he turns into my touch, eyes closing. “I promise to not kill you in your sleep.”

 

He chuckles breathily, lips pressing to my palm as he mumbles back, “Sounds like something someone who’d kill someone in their sleep would say.”

 

I lick my lips, smiling fondly as my thumb rubs over his cheek. “Gentleman’s word,” I breathe before bending up and pressing my lips to his forehead. “I like to be little spoon.”

 

“Of course you do.” I can hear the smile in his voice, letting me imagine his brilliant grin even as he’s silhouetted in the dim lights. His lips press to my cheek before the energy around me disappears, his body falling back onto the pillows. His hand gives my hip a quick tug, and I let myself fall in beside him. He curls around me promptly, head tucked into my neck and hands resting against my torso.

 

He’s snoring before I can even say a proper ‘Good night’, which is fair, given he’s almost passed out on me a handful of times since this all started.

 

Whatever ‘this’ is.

 

Fuck it. It’s whatever he wants it to be. I’m relatively confident in the fact that this is not a one-night stand, given how intimate everything was, but I’m not quite sure what any of it actually was. It was borderline domestic; it was like he just fits in as if he’s always been here.

 

It was like if he woke up in the morning and said “Good morning, darling”, it’d be right.

 

I want him to call me darling. I doubt he’ll call me darling.

 

As his breath hits the back of my neck and the beating of his heart thumps against my back, I reconsider that. Maybe he will, so long as I let him.

 

He breathes so calmly. Simon Salisbury, you’re a living testament to how quickly I can spiral away, and hopefully you won’t slip into my habit of taking too much of a good thing and lose it in the process. Hopefully, you’ll stay.

 

You’ll be the good thing that’ll keep giving, and I’ll keep taking all that you’ve got to offer, because I need it. I need something, and you’re that right now.

 

My hands rest over his, eyes shutting as I take in a full breath. _My Simon._

 

By the time I wake, he’s gone from my side.

 

My eyes shoot open, searching around as my heart rate skyrockets, but then it hits me--the sound of the shower running.

 

I peel myself way from the covers, stripping naked and going to the door to listen for a second.

 

He hums when he’s alone. I’d noticed it before, back at Counting Sheep. He’ll hum oldies. Right now, it’s “Come On Eileen”.

 

The door creaks as I nudge it open, steam hitting my face as I peek inside. His humming stops, the sound of his feet stepping aside on the shower’s tiled ground. “Gonna join me or what?” His voice is still pillow-soft. I might fucking melt.

 

I draw back the curtain, stepping in with him as he glances up to me, smiling a bit. “Is being up before noon usual for you?”

 

I snort, shaking my head as I run it under the stream. “Fuck no. Just woke up feeling odd.”

 

“Sorry about that,” his hand presses to my lower back, thumb stroking my spine. “I’ve got work in about an hour and I didn’t want to wake you.”

 

“So you planned on just leaving me in an empty bed?” I try not to sound hurt, but fucking hell.

 

He looks at me, and it dawns on me that he’s hurt by that right back. “I planned on leaving a note,” he mumbles, looking down. “I… I didn’t give you my number yet, but you’d know where I’d be if I said work, and I’d want to see you again and--”

 

I kiss him, just to shut him up. He’s tense at first, but then clings to me, holding my face, then my shoulders, then my chest and hips. He’s pulled me in close, kissing me with everything he’s got.

 

When we break, he’s panting and trying to go back to his awfully pitiful rant that’s making me fall for him more and more with every word. “I’m sorry, I really am. I really _really_ liked last night and--”

 

“Simon, stop.”

 

He shuts up, staring up at me with watery eyes and damp hair flat against his forehead. I brush my hand over it, pushing it back and pressing my lips to his skin. “I believe you,” I whisper against him, “I’m not upset.”

 

He exhales, breath hot against my neck as he nods. “Can I come back after my shift?” he murmurs, eyes staying shut. “I don’t want to act like this was nothing.”

 

“Why would you think it was nothing?”

 

He shrugs. “You’re a dick.”

 

He’s not half wrong. “I am,” I admit, “but I don’t think I could look over this, even if I wanted to.”

 

Fingers drum against my sides as he breaks into a grin. “So does that mean I can come back?”

 

I nod, hands pushing into his hair. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. I might be working or sleeping, if I feel like it, so just let yourself in.” His fingers sneak around my waist and pull me in from my back, his lips settling back against my neck.

 

“Sounds good. I can bring over dinner, if you want.”

 

Shit, it’s way too domestic now. Bringing in dinners, cuddling to sleep. I should end this while I’m ahead, while he doesn’t shatter every part of me that I let down, while I-- “Sounds lovely.”

 

We stand together, pressed up against one another until Simon peels back and washes himself, yanking my head down to scrub shampoo into my hair, despite my best efforts to get him to stop (saying no unconvincingly, because I’d love to have his fingers run through my hair). There’s something unmistakably gentle in the way he smiles, in the hum of his voice and the brush of fingertips. It’s grounding.

 

Eventually, though, the water does run cold enough for us to reluctantly stop having an upright cuddle session and pull ourselves out.

 

He dries off and dresses silently, his back to me the entire time. I suppose I’m a bit pervy, because I just sit on my bed and watch the way the muscles in his back flex at tiny movements. It’s not that it’s particularly a strange way of me staring at him, but it’s just not decent, probably, to stare at someone who’s not your actual boyfriend like that. (Are we boyfriends now? Is that how this works for people? This is well beyond ‘having fun’, but do we have to say something to consider us anything?)

 

The clank of his belt buckle snaps me away, and I watch him turn and crinkle his nose at me. “If you want to visit later, feel free.”

 

I yawn, laying back and stretching my arms. “Hm. I don’t go on Sundays.”

 

“I won’t tell.” My head pops up as he winks, grinning at me. “Just think about it. Keep me company.”

 

I feel myself smile, listening to his grunts as he kneels down and ties his shoes. I half expect him to just leave, but his head pops out right in front of me as the bed dips on either sides of my hips, his palms digging down to prop him up.

 

“Care to give a goodbye kiss?”

 

My eyes roll as I lift my head up, kissing his cheek softly while I’m keeping myself up. He pauses before kissing me properly, and I let my arms raise up and hold onto his shirt. After a few minutes, he lets back and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Be back around six.”

 

I nod my head, trying desperately to reach for words, but getting none. He kisses my cheek nonetheless and pushes up fully. My front door opens then shuts soon after.

 

It doesn’t take long for me to drift back off, sleeping until about 2 when my body gets me up to piss. When I reach my pillows again, I smile to myself. Smells a bit like him after all. Anti bacterials and cheap aftershave with the vaguest hint of burnt coffee. I inhale it deeper, relaxing amongst the blankets as my mind drifts to the time. About four hours until he gets back.

 

Theoretically, I could try to spiffy up the flat more by putting away my book notes and remaking the bed. Might even be good to change the sheets, except I can’t bring myself to disrupt the space he’s made in the bed where he pushed away the sheets.

 

I grab my phone off the beside, unplugging it and thumbing it open.

 

**To: PSP (public school pricks)**

**From: T.B.**

 

**pretty idiot and i may have hooked up**

 

**and he’s coming back after work**

 

**and I am absolutely sure I’m going to off and fuck this up**

 

_R you even smart nough to fuck it up?_

 

**are you smart enough to spell ‘enough’?**

 

_Fuck you_

 

**_Hold on, how did this happen?_ **

 

**simple, niall**

 

**he caught on, i showed him my frankly stalker-ish book set up, and he snogged me senseless (among other things that I won’t send, because apparently I’m not allowed to talk about my dick anymore)**

 

_You just did_

 

**_You just did._ **

 

**oh, pity**

 

**_Why do you think you’ll fuck this up?_ **

 

**another simple answer; I fuck everything good up**

 

_Not true, i can name two things you haven’t fucked up_

 

**_Baz, pray tell, have you started imagining a life for the both of you together?_ **

 

**you mean, did I fantasize about a house in the countryside where we’ll grow old together  while he shampoos my hair?**

 

**because the answer is yes**

 

**_Then you’re absolutely fucked, mate._ **

 

_Fuckd_

 

**somehow, the both of you have managed to say absolutely nothing over the course of 10 texts**

 

**disappointing**

 

I set my phone back before they can answer, rolling over and grabbing hold of Simon’s pillow again, breathing it in. It’s practically therapy, at this point.

 

I don’t recall falling back asleep, but I’m awoke to the bed dipping beside me. In a haze, I turn my head and feel cold lips press to my cheek, to which I huff a bit at. A deep chuckle ripples through the air beside me, sending tingles down my spine.

 

“Sorry,” Simon whispers, “‘s icy cold outside, I suppose my face didn’t stay warm.” My head turns towards his voice, eyes staying shut as I grunt in response and try to shimmy closer. The fabric of his shirt presses against my face first as I scoot closer.

 

“What’d you bring?” I mumble into him, feeling his fingers rake through my still slightly damp hair.

 

“Pizza. That alright?”

 

I nod against him, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth slowly. “Wonderful.” His fingers run down and lift my chin from his skin, to which I open my eyes and find that it was near his hip. He grins at me, leaning down towards the bed and kissing my cheek.

 

I lean into it, because I’m a weak bastard.

 

The curl of his fingers under my chin tells me he’s at least somewhat a weak bastard too, because he’s kissing me full on now, and I’m groggily leaning into it and taking it all.

 

When he pulls away, I study over the rosy tint to his cheeks in the light of my bedside lamp. He smiles as he always does, with all of his face front and centre.

 

I make myself peel away, standing up and stumbling as I pull on pants and sweats, to which I hear Simon chuckle to behind me. “What?” I insist, not turning back as I grab a comb and try to detangle the mess I’d made by sleeping on my hair wet.

 

“‘S nothing,” he says. I can hear the shake in his head when he speaks. “I’d just never seen you in any trousers less proper than slacks.”

 

I’m not quite sure if that’s a compliment or not, but I turn towards him either way. “I’d rather not wear a nice pair of trousers if I’m just sitting on my sofa and eating pizza. Why, don’t you have casual wear?”

 

He shrugs. “Usually just my pants. I just own jeans, joggers, and my boxers.”

 

Why am I not surprised? I just nod, stepping off to grab a few slices before sinking back into the couch and turning on something shit, easy, and there. He joins me after he kicks off his shoes and hangs up his jacket, grabbing a few slices before scooting in close. His head perches on my shoulder, stuffing his face somewhat aggressively as he watches the telly.

 

I hate how it’s grown on me a bit, but at least I can tune out the somewhat overbearing noise of Simon’s eating. It’s sort of endearing, how he eats like a dog.

 

“I--uh--I wanna say something,” Simon says about halfway through an episode of Doctor Who, pushing himself up to a properly seated position and turning to face me. Suppose it’s actually serious, because he goes through the effort of putting his plate down on the coffee table. I mute the show immediately.

 

“I was thinking a lot at work,” he says, voice getting quick. “And I don’t think an awful lot, I’m shit with it. I hate thinking, and I try not to.” His eyes study my face, which tries to remain neutrally quizzical at his frankly concerning spiel. “I’m trying to say that I was thinking about you non-stop. I have been, actually, for a while now. Like I said, I’m awfully obsessed and…”

 

“Spit it out, Salisbury.”

 

His tongue flicks out, eyes darting between his hands and my face. “Look, I want to… I… I’m a god awful, absolutely and positively shit boyfriend. I’ve only got one ex to prove it, and she moved to America to get away from me -”

 

I blink, nodding slowly. And here’s his rejection.

 

“- but I want to be your god awful, absolutely and positively shit boyfriend. I want whatever this is, and whatever this is going to be.”

 

 _Oh_. “Are you sure?” is somehow all that I can manage, staring at him all daft as he nervously chews at his lip.

 

“Am I--what? Am I sure I’m shit? Because I can promise you that I am definitely--”

 

“No,” I sigh, “I meant do you really want us to be boyfriends?”

 

“Yes,” he says eagerly, nodding his head. “Don’t have any reasons to not to.”

 

“Maybe that you’re rushing into it?”

 

He grins, laughing. “Nonsense. I’ve known you for about a month now, haven’t I?”

 

“But… but you…”

 

“I’d never hated you,” he says, shaking his head and reaching out to grab my hands. “Never had, never will. You’re a prick, but that’s sort of hot.” Now I’m laughing.

 

“If I say yes, will you snog me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow to him.

 

He grins widely, leaning in a bit and whispering “I’ll do more than just snog you” before closing the space between us and knocking the wind from my lungs as he kisses me bluntly. I topple back, leaning against the armrest as he follows me back and kisses all that’s left of me to give.

 

We both let back eventually; I suppose he realised the pizza’s going to get cold if he doesn’t eat it fast enough. We settle against the couch, me laying back and him sprawled out on top of me. He feeds me a bite occasionally, which I take with rolled eyes and quiet sighs.

 

Eventually, after a while of just my fingers carding through his hair as we cuddle, I let myself get weak again.

 

“You haven’t told me much about your life,” I say softly, eyes following the way his curls fall from my fingertips. “I know a bit about your mum, and I was there when your friend Penny came in one time, but that’s it.”

 

His head rests against my chest, eyes shut as he shrugs. “Not much to tell. Mum left dad when I was young, raised me as best as she could as a single mother. I spent my summers with my gran while my mum went to summer classes between shifts to get her degree. I met Penny when I was 12, and we’ve been best friends ever since. We share a flat. I’m quite boring. I met my first and only ex, Agatha, when I was 16, and since we’d been together for what, eight, nine years, I’d thought we were set to actually stay forever. She seemed to have other plans, though.”

 

“Other plans?”

 

“Picked up and moved to America. Said she didn’t like England and wanted to go somewhere less gloomy. I didn’t want to leave my mum, and she said I’m too much for her anyway. Apparently, it’s too much to want to go out and live my life.” His head lifts from my chest, eyes looking up at me nervously. “I mean, it might’ve been. I don’t know. I could never tell, really.”

 

My hand reaches back to his hair, brushing it from his forehead and cupping his cheek. “Doubt it.” I press a kiss to his scalp, thinking. “Did you really not fuck in nine years?”

 

“Well, uh, no. She didn’t want to, and I respect that.”

 

I blink and raise my eyebrows. “ _Really?_ You loved her _that much?_ ”

 

“I… I don’t know if ‘love’ was the right word. I think I stayed with her because it seemed right. I met her through my gran, since her family runs in the same wealth circle that my gran is in and it was a big Christmas dinner. Her parents really liked me, and it just felt like staying with her was something I had to do because other people said it was right.”

 

He’s playing with his sleeve now, tugging it up further towards his palm and glancing down. “I just stayed because it was supposed to be right. I cared about her a lot, but I wouldn’t call it love like a relationship love. It was love like you love a mate. It was enough for me to reason with myself to stay.” He rests back against my chest, and I notice how his voice tremors slightly less; he’s calmer when my hands stay on him.

 

I wrap my other arm around his back, resting my palm at the bottom. “What’s your mum like?” I whisper, kissing his curls. I feel him grin against my bared skin.

 

“My mum is my favourite human on the earth. She’s wise and warm and there no matter what. Sometimes, I think about the fact that she nearly died when I was born and I just need to call her and say I love her, because I can’t imagine a world without her. My dad, Davy, is an outright prick who likens himself to a revolutionary when he’s actually just some manipulative bastard with a pretty smile. I wouldn’t want to be left in his hands, I’ll tell you that.” He smiles a bit. “It’s fine, though. I’ve got my mum, and she’s got me.”

 

“Is she why you sing oldies to yourself?” I ask, rubbing his back slowly. He nods, grinning ear to ear.

 

“She likes classics. Says they’re classics for a reason, and I agree.”

 

I smile to that. I’m not quite sure why, but it makes me happy, genuinely happy. Like it lights a match inside me, and his smile is just blowing on the little tinders and keeping the heat alive.

 

At least, that’s what mum used to say love was. It’s keeping a fire alive, and while you hold the fire, the other person needs to blow to keep it warm. It’s a joint effort, or else it’ll die eventually.

 

And here Simon is, blowing on my heart as he rambles carelessly about his mum, barely stuttering and tripping over his words as compared to usual conversations, where every other syllable seems to be “um” instead, except for fuck, shit, and any insult he can think of. Fuck him for that, I suppose (or fuck me, please).

 

I smile at him, really _truly_ at him, as I nod. “She’s got a point. I don’t like popular music, but an oldie gets stuck.”

 

He practically pushes himself off of me, holding himself up above me as he nods. “ _Exactly_. I fall in love with a catchy tune, because it’s always there to sing in the car. That’s how mum puts it, at least. If it’s a car song, it’s a good song.”

 

Fucking hell, this man’s the cutest being on the face of this pitiful, boring earth.

 

“You’re not wrong.” My fingers push through his hair, tugging his head down and kissing him softly and letting him take all the lead and power. All at once, he’s got his arms around me and he takes it from relaxed to eager, tugging me closer and pushing down. It’s like he wants to prove something, but I’m not trying to disagree.

 

When he pulls back, my eyes flutter open to see his head shake and eyes squeeze shut. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “just… nobody really seems to ask me those sorts of things. I’ve got plenty of people who I’m friendly with, but nobody ever really asks and it just got the best of me and--” I cut him off with a kiss, fists clenching handfuls of the fabric of his shirt.

 

I yank him back down towards me, kissing him as forcefully as I can manage before parting for breath and whispering into his ear, “It’s so sexy when you’re soft.” He shivers at the notion, lifting himself away just to get a good look at me before crashing back into me.

 

We keep finding new ways to crash, including into the wall, into my dresser instead of my bed, and finally onto my mattress, tugging at each other’s clothes and hair and whatever else we can grab, kissing and nipping and just going fucking insane.

 

I’m not quite sure where my brain went; I have no recollection of anything but existing at this moment, but it’s fine. As Simon tells me to lay back with my hands over my head, it’s completely and utterly fine that I don’t remember what year the Battle of Waterloo took place or how many eggs it takes to make a good omelette. All that matters at this point in time is Simon’s hot breath against my neck, how the way his hips grind against mine drives me absolutely mad, and how I definitely do not want him to stop.

 

I grip my pillow tighter, letting out an involuntary whine as he pushes off of me for a moment, but I realise why soon after. He’s grabbing a condom. Holy fucking shit he’s grabbing a condom.

 

“Wait,” I say, a hand flying up to rest against his chest. His head turns to me, blinking and titling slightly to the side. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

 

Can’t say that I’ve ever thought about coming to someone just smiling, but I can see it happening now as he flashes me a loose, cheerful smile. “I don’t need to wait another nine years to know that I really like you,” he breathes between gentle pants. “Are _you_ ready for this?”

 

I snort, head falling back onto the pillow as I raise my eyebrows at him. “I’ve had the thought of you topping me in the front of my mind for about three weeks now, I think I’m ready.”

 

Thankfully, he finds that funny.

 

He carefully opens the condom wrapper, tossing his trousers back off to the side as he climbs over to sit between my legs. “You’re going to have to help me a little, okay? I sort of generally get the gist, I’m just a little clueless on everything else.”

 

My head lifts, elbows resting behind me as I prop myself up. “Well, you’ve got to grab the lube. There’s prep work involved.”

 

“Prep work?” he asks incredulously, rolling on the condom. Frankly, his surprise might’ve been more entertaining if it wasn’t absolutely appalling to me that there’s so little knowledge of how to give it to someone in the ass.

 

“Yes, prep work,” I sigh. “You can’t just stick it in, you need to get me comfortable and more, you know, open.”

 

He nods slowly, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. “Okay,” he murmurs, “uh… okay.” He leans over, shuffling through my drawer and grabbing the lube. “What now?”

 

“Let me see your hand.”

 

He offers it without a second question, eyes staring up at me questioningly as his other hand offers the lube. I open it with a flourish, slowly squeezing a generous dollop onto his fingers before sliding it over the first three, making sure they’re coated. “Okay. You’re going to put these in me one by one.”

 

Simon studies his fingers, then looks at me carefully before nodding, his cheeks pink. “I… sure, yeah.”

 

That makes me snort, smirking at him. “Scared?”

 

“I dunno. Sort of? How does it…”

 

My lips press to his cheek, then to his jaw. “Trust me, it’s necessary. Just tell me what you want me to do next.”

 

He nods and stares hard at me, processing for a moment before thoughtfully saying. “Just stay like this. It’ll be easier to tell if I’m doing it right if I can see you clearly.”

 

Somehow, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me right before they’ve stuck their fingers in me. Thankfully, he does get to the next step and goes through with it, latching on to me at first and kissing me (probably to calm his own nerves) as his index finger sinks into me. A gasp climbs out of me, resting against Simon’s lips and mouth as he tugs me closer and keeps snogging me.

 

He takes his time, opening me slowly and delicately, moving almost anxiously as his lips move down my jaw and trickle across my neck, leaving spots that I’m sure will stay for the next few days.

 

By the time he’s satisfied with the marks on my skin, he’s pulling out his fingers and grabbing the lube again, palming it over his already condom covered cock before guiding himself down. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

 

My lips upturn as my fingers drag under his chin. “I should be asking you the same question,” I murmur. “I’m absolutely ready, so long as you are.”

 

He nods his head, looking steadily determined as he presses a quick kiss to my cheek and shifts his hips in the slightest. After the cutest deep breath on his part, his cock slowly pushes into me, sinking a little deeper over the moments of shaky silence between us. My hand raises up, flatly resting against his back and rubbing the exposed skin with one hand as my other one finds the one that’s firmly planted beside me. I take it, threading our fingers together as I stare up at him, fully flushed and smiling as much as I can.

 

I feel him relax, muscles resting against mine after he sinks in fully and stops, unsure of where to go next or what to do. I reassure him with a squeeze. “Just move,” I whisper. “Don’t overthink it, just move.”

 

His lip pulls in, settling between chewing teeth as his head dips in a nod. His hips shift and his cock pulls out mostly before thrusting back in quickly, eyes on my face for a glimpse of a reaction. I wouldn’t quite say I oversell it, but I give him a satisfying groan and shutting of my eyes, encouraging him to keep going.

 

And keep going he does, taking hold of my hip as his hand squeezes mine. I let him have this control-- _full control_ \--as my head falls back to my pillow and my back arches. Little groans leak out of me on occasion, my mouth hanging open as pants escape and hitch each time he moves _just_ right.

 

I don’t go fully limp, though, as my hand traces up and down his spine and digs into his skin on occasion. My eyes push open after a few minutes, mouth still agape as I stare up at him. His eyes are closed, eyebrows knit together in concentration as his lips part and his face flushes and fuck, he’s so _so_ close to me. I can practically feel his breath against mine, closing into me and dampening my cheeks.

 

Something about his expression tempts me to drag my hand up, settling against his jaw as my thumb rests against his lower lip and pulls down slightly. His eyes flicker open, catching mine in the moment. A few beats of his hips pass before he closes into me, mouth colliding with mine as my hand drops back to his hip. My nails bite into his skin, urging him closer, _harder_ , coaxing him into giving me everything. Seconds later, his hand wraps around my cock and starts stroking in rhythm, causing my hips to buck with his. It doesn’t take long after that; it’s all too much. It’s so much him, all at once, and it’s borderline _too_ real. It’s so unnervingly real.

 

It’s so real that when he starts pulling back, probably just to clean himself off because he’s softening around the edges and dammit, I’m a soft bastard myself. I’m an absolute softie, because I open my eyes and just utter “Stay”. Because this feels like it’s going to end the moment he’s off of me.

 

He meets my gaze, surprise spread across him. I can hear his breath catch, holding all the air in the room with it. I can finally breathe when he relaxes, eyeing me up curiously. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, borderlining into a chuckle. “I’m just tossing the condom.”

 

“I know.” My hand rubs the scratch marks along his back. “Just… give it a second. I don’t want you up yet.”

 

He finishes pulling out, laying on top of me and tucking his face into my neck as he mumbles something absentmindedly. I feel his face turn and lips press into my skin before his head lowers again and his breath tickles my collarbone.

 

Domestic. That’s all I want for us. Niall was right, I’m dreaming of a three bedroom countryside house with a wide backyard. I’m dreaming of home cooked pastries and his lips against mine. I’m dreaming of him saying “I love you”.

 

It’s far too early now, but I’m craving it as if we’d been at this for months. As if the last two days were a lifetime of domesticity.

 

I think I can hold off, though. I’m going to have to hold off.

 

My hands push into his curls, tugging at them as I comb through and lift his head along with the knots. Gently, I kiss the tip of his nose before sighing and letting go. “Okay, go clean up.”

 

He peels himself away, humming a tune to himself (that shamefully takes me too long to realise it’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by _The Four Seasons_ ) as he pulls the condom off, knotting it and tossing it out. Grabbing his shoulders, he puts on a show of stretching bare naked and in a sweaty sheen from a post-fuck. Frankly, I should hate him like this, all showboaty and basically glowing like a Greek God, but instead I just smile to myself and mindlessly indulge in the moment.

 

I watch as he pads away, stepping into the bathroom to splash his face before gracing me with his presence again. In a dramatic, borderline uncivilised manner, he flops onto the bed beside me, face-down, and yawns. Fucking hell, he’s adorable.

 

I halfass clean myself off with a tissue, tossing it toward the rubbish before curling up to Simon’s side and letting his arm drape around me and drag me in. We curl around each other, my hands holding closely to his as we tuck around each other. Within minutes, he’s asleep.

 

My eyelids grow heavy and bothersome to keep open, and Simon’s muffled snored seem to lull me to sleep faster than anything else has before because I’m passed out after minutes of cuddling up to the golden disaster beside me.

 

It’s fantastic waking up next to someone and not immediately panicking because it’s not your flat.

 

Everything’s still; everything’s at peace. The hum of the heating, the gentle rise and fall of Simon’s chest as he’s curled up into me. My head turns, eyes glancing out the window and taking in the sight.

 

It’s snowing. Really snowing. Large, heavy flakes. They’re the kinds that you pack together and huck at a loved ones’ back.

 

I lie awake, cuddled up close to my boyfriend and silently watching the sky let out before me. It isn’t long until I sit up and grab my laptop, getting to work.

 

Simon’s arms wrap around my thigh, face pressing into my bare hip. Mindlessly, one hand rests on his head and strokes his hair thrice before returning to my keyboard. The night shifts to day by the time I’ve gone back and added enough details to make a viable story.


	4. i'm so unbelievably lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think I love you,” I murmur, watching his head rattle along with the movements of the train car. Slowly, his eyes fall shut, smile sticking as his hand curls tighter around mine.
> 
> “I think I love you too,” he whispers back.
> 
> -
> 
> Meeting the families, both chosen and blood.

It’s around eight when Simon starts waking up, his face scrunching and nose digging deeper into my skin before letting off. He peers up at me, grinning groggily before kissing my hip. “Morning,” he whispers. It deserves him a gentle pet, to which he chuckles at. “I thought you said you weren’t a morning person.”

 

“I’m not. I’ve been up since three.”

 

He lets out a little noise against me, seeming to nuzzle back and forth at my skin for a minute before settling. “Come cuddle me instead?” he whispers. When I peer down, he’s staring up with wide, pleading eyes and a bastardly grin.

 

“Can’t.” It pains me to say it. “‘M working. I can’t lose the flow I’ve got.”

 

In the blink of an eye, his grin turns to a pout, then plateaus. “Can… I read it?”

 

“What?”

 

“What you’ve got. I want to read it.”

 

“I… it’s my story. That hero story.”

 

He wrinkles his nose to me. “Figured that much, ‘m not a complete idiot. Still wanna read it.”

 

The cursor’s bar blinks in front of me, seaming to tease me as my fingers levitate over the keys. Theoretically, it could be a  _ good _ idea, letting him help me, could let me into the inner workings of his brain. Then again, it could be an absolutely horrendous idea. It might make him chalk me up to an absolute creep and make him stomp out of here, out of my life.

 

He’s deciding for me, though, as he peers over my lap and peeks at the screen. “C’mon, it’s on a Google Doc. You can just share it to me, you don’t even need to hand over your laptop.”

 

I purse my lips, then huff. “Fine, what’s your email?”

 

“ [ simonssalisbury@gmail.com ](mailto:simonssalisbury@gmail.com) .” His hand slowly turns around my thigh, palm pressing to the inside of it and tugging it towards him. He hugs it, skin pressing to skin as his lips trail against my hip. I type it in and send it over, my hand reluctantly petting his hair again.

 

“There,” I say gently, “you’re added.”

 

His mouth breaks from my side, giving me room to finally find my breath as he turns over. After a minute of searching his clothes, he grabs out his phone and taps around, sinking back into the bed beside me. He cuddles up to my side, head settling on my shoulder as his legs wrap around my thigh, arms linking around mine tightly. It’s like he’s an octopus, or just a really clingy dog. Either way, I don’t think I could get rid of him, even if I tried.

 

We stay silent for a while, the only sounds filling the room are of the bed sheets shifting as he seems to never endingly move (I’m starting to think he’s got a minor attention issue). He squirms slightly every so often, keeping pressed to me as his eyes follow sentence after sentence. After about half an hour, I feel his hand slowly slide down my arm and pry open my working hand, taking it and weaving our fingers together. I turn my head to protest, but he simply keeps his eyes on his screen and smiles an intimate, velvety soft grin. I can’t help but savour the fact that it’s just for me.

 

My head dips down, lips pressing to the underside of his jaw as he reads. Small, gentle noises escape his throat, his chin eventually brushing my head as his head turns. I hear a quiet “What?” above me.

 

“Do you work today?” I ask, squeezing the hand that mine’s locked against. He shakes his head against me, his neck moving back from me as his lips press to my scalp.

 

“No, I don’t. I should probably go back to my flat for a bit, though. I wanna grab some stuff.”

 

And, because I’m the most pathetic man on earth, I peer up to him and whisper back a “Will you be coming back to me, then?” Because of course, it’s been what, three days of  _ this _ and I’m begging him to crawl back the moment he thinks of leaving.

 

Because I want to live in an illusion that this honeymoon period is how it’s always going to be. That I’m somehow loveable, that this is somehow infinite.

 

That even his pink lips and tousled morning hair are things that I can keep private. Locked away in my tower of greed, which is actually a small flat in the middle of London.

 

He nods, though. That’s all that’s needed, his nod and his damned smile. “I can come back if you want me back.”

 

I’m so fucking weak. My hand untangles from his and rests against his stomach, leaning into him as I whisper “I never want you to leave.”

 

He closes the space between us, kissing me for at least a minute before I find his hand cupped to the back of my head, fingers knotting amongst my unbrushed bedhead and pressing my skull forward. I take it, hand shifting to his hip and stroking his skin.

 

It all comes to a stop when there’s a rattling at my door. Jingling keys, the sound of someone cursing.

 

Not just ‘someone’; it’s not some strange fuck trying to get into the wrong flat. No, it’s someone who  _ definitely _ shouldn’t be up right now.

 

I pull back quickly, eyes darting around the room and launching myself to grab pants for the both of us. I toss a pair at Simon’s head, pressing a finger to my lips as I throw on sweats and a tee. (I think I might’ve grabbed Simon’s. Brilliant.)

 

Fiona’s throwing her bag on my couch before throwing herself on with it with a groan. “Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ, Baz, have you heard of answering a goddamn phone?”

 

“Sorry,” I halfass, standing in front of the mostly closed doorway to my room, the bed (mostly) out of sight. “What’s wrong?”

 

“What’s _wrong?_ _What’s wrong?_ I’m a fucking mess of a woman, that’s what’s wrong.” Her arm lazily waves in the air as her head lifts, eyes squinting at me. She pauses. “Two things. One, I need the strongest fucking caffeine you’ve got. Two, why’ve you got a hickey on your neck?”

 

I freeze, pursing my lips before making my way to the kitchen. “I could ask you the same,” I mumble, dragging out a mug before clearly saying “It would’ve been  _ great _ if you’d knocked, Fi.”

 

Her snort’s muffled by pillows. “What, you’ve got someone here?”

 

I’m silent, eyes set on the bedroom door as I click the kettle on. Fiona’s head lifts up again, eyes dragging from the door, to me, then back to the door. “Oh shit, you do.”

 

I make a point of clearing my throat. “Like I said, would’ve been great.”

 

“Is he… is he up? He’s in there, isn’t he?”

 

“Would’ve been  _ great _ ,” I grit through my teeth, staring daggers at her, “if you’d knocked.”

 

She smirks a bit at me before laughing, outright laughing. She pushes herself up, sitting in a slouch and covering her face with her long, pointed hands as she laughs. I grimace.

 

And of course, with that comes Simon stepping out of my room  _ in my trackies _ with bedhead, an askew shirt, and still looking  _ well _ snogged.

 

With that comes Fiona laughing harder, much to my distaste.

 

Simon takes it well, though, just staring at her in confusion as he makes his way to my side, wrapping an arm around my middle and tugging me close as he whispers a quiet “What’s her problem?” into my ear.

 

“She’s a loon, that’s what,” I whisper back, lips pressing to the shell of his ear before pulling back, still threading my fingers around his. “This is my aunt Fiona, who’ll be leaving now, won’t she?”

 

“Like hell I am,” she cracks, hands flying down against the couch as she snorts. “You’ve ought to be the mad thinking I’ll miss this.”

 

“Then, may I insist, for you to be mad?” I emphasize, cocking a brow to her as I instinctively tug Simon closer. He keeps against me, thankfully, with his head perched on my shoulder.

 

“You surely cannot.” She’s died down now, trying to suppress the wicked grin she’s got stuck across her face. “Either way, I’ve got right business to discuss, starting with thanking you for being a wingman, for  _ once _ . I properly fucked up in the past, and somehow you fixed that up.”

 

Simon’s eyebrows knit in confusion, but I kiss it away. “She and Ebb were… close.”

 

“Is… she who Ebb’s been going on about?”

 

“She talks about me?” Fi perks up.

 

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Yes, yes, and yes. Fiona, can you leave? I’ll call you later. Go off and visit your  _ sweetheart _ and let me eat breakfast, at least.”

 

She sends a look in my direction, turning her nose up at me (suppose that’s where I get it) before she collects her bag and coat. “Fine, but you owe me lunch. Came all the way here, after all.”

 

A cheeky, insincerely smile pushes across my face. “Oh, but of course, your highness.” Fi just scoffs and heads out, leaving me with a heavy exhale and Simon's eyes resting on me. I catch that gaze, staring back quizzically until I answer.

 

“You didn't have to send her off, you know,” he says gently, “I don't think she was that big of a bother...”

 

My lips press to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth to shut him up. “She would be, after ten minutes or so. Either way, I'm rather peckish and I'd much rather have breakfast with just you and you alone.” His mouth turns up beside me, nose pressing into my skin as he exhales slowly.

 

We wind up making breakfast together, hip-to-hip for most of the process. Turns out, we flow fairly well, although we squabble on what to put in an egg and how to scramble it. That's solved with our mouths, though (seems to be like that a lot). In fact, there isn't much of a long period of time when we're not touching in some way. My lips pressed to his hand, his quick pecks at my shoulder. I wonder if it’ll last. I wonder if I can keep this moment forever.

 

It doesn't, though. After breakfast, he squeezes my hand and reminds me that he has to head home. I make him promise with more or less of a plead on my part for him to come back.

 

The press of his lips to my temple, long and soft, tells me that he’s coming right back.

 

Once he leaves, I clean up silently, letting my mind drift back into the story, which is where I find myself at when I'm done.

 

I’m not quite working at a machine pace, but words are coming quite quicker than they usually are, filling pages after pages over my few hours of silence. The details start filling in, and by the time Simon’s back, I’m nearly done. “I've got a plot,” I call out, watching him wander about the flat. He returns back to the room, glass of water in hand and dropping a duffle bag by the door. My heart races at the mere prospect of it.

 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, sliding onto bed beside me and hooking his arms around my waist. “Tell me.”

 

I must be weaker than the tides, because I'm giving into his pull. The arm settling around my waist tugs me closer, and I'd give anything to keep him here against me.

 

So, I start rambling. On and on, twisting through words of vampires and dens, the Victorian Estate, the Mage, and sweet little Ebb. I pause before saying she sacrifices herself, worrying that it's a bit overstepping, but Simon agrees. That's in her character.

 

“Is it too… on the nose?” I mumble, flicking through the document. It's quite lengthy, and even in so many split sections and chapters, it holds a substantial weight. “I mean, the characters, the events and all… I’m changing their names, for the sake of privacy, but what if it’s not successful?”

 

His lips press to the back of my neck. “Well,” he starts, “how’d you write Gravel Road?”

 

I snort. “Sleep deprivation, anger at my childhood, two things of boxed wine, and a few manic bursts.”

 

“Sounds… somewhat recreatable.”

 

“I suppose,” I say, sighing and leaning into him. “Or I just quit entirely.”

 

He frowns at that, pinching my arm. “Stop that,” he protests, “you have potential,  _ this _ has potential.”

 

The spot where I left blinks slowly, my eyes baring through the screen. It feels awfully silly, at least to me, to actually read it. Going through it, I realise how much I sounded like I’m grabbing for Snow’s attention, and now that I have it, it feels mute. He’s here around me, cushioning me from my blinded affection and letting me give into more realistic temptations, such as kissing him. This is all I really ever wanted, and now I’m hundreds of pages into a novel that nobody may ever truly understand, purely because they’ll never want Simon Salisbury so deeply as I’ve wanted him.

 

Even now, as it’s just on a document, it feels like it’s unfair to even exist. All the words I’ve spat onto a page feel so private, so intimate. Up until this point, it’s been relatively for just me and my heart.

 

Despite that, despite  _ every _ hesitation, I feel my sight drift back to Simon’s, who’s giving me a pointed “Don’t argue” look, which makes me swallow the backwash of my pride. “Will you read it all over, for me? You don’t have to immediately, it’s just-”

 

“Of course I will,” he says gently, reaching out and tucking a fallen strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll do it in my free time on my shift tomorrow.”

 

With a sweeping hand against my jaw, I feel my breath hitch as he draws me closer. It doesn’t take much to set me off, launching myself forward and colliding into a kiss.

 

Maybe I’m a bit too weak for him, because any time he even looks at me now, I can barely stop myself from snogging him senseless.

 

Maybe,  _ just maybe _ , this is the erotic grope-fest I’d hoped for.

 

As the day drags on, then the week, and then onto the next, it sort of dies down, though. Not my feelings,  _ never _ my feelings, but the irresistible urge to latch myself onto Simon at any chance has dwindled into a burning ember in my chest.

 

It’s odd to fall into a relationship like this, as if we just slot together. While there’s unexpected aspects to this, such as his flatmate/best friend, who lectured me for at least half an hour on how they’re practically family, and if I’m dating him, I’m dating the  _ family. _ To that I responded with “Well, it’s a good thing I’m gay then”. I’ve learned that she’s not afraid to smack your arm, but then give you a loving pinch that  _ apparently _ means she approves, at least, according to Simon.

 

I mean, that,  _ and _ Ebb above and beyond approves. As in she baked us a cake. An entire, tooth-rottingly sweet yellow cake topped with a “Congratulations” scrawled across the top. Smiley face and all.

 

By about a month in, though, Simon sits across from me at the kitchen island, shoveling cereal into his mouth as he raises his head to ask “Why haven’t I met your mates yet?”

 

That is, sadly, a question that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

 

It isn’t like I’ve been hiding him, exactly. Nor is it that they  _ wouldn’t _ approve, but there’s something about it that’s crossing further than every other barrier we’ve hit.

 

“I haven’t really met any of your friends, except Bunce.”

 

“I  _ just _ have Penny.” It makes my throat catch, squinting and mouth flying open to throw a defence, but it stops flat. Words elude me, because he might  _ actually _ be right.

 

For such a friendly bloke, he’s awfully lonely.

 

My throat clears quietly, eyes dropping to my tea as my mind grabs around for an answer. “I’ll text them, see if they’re free for dinner tonight.” The lump in my throat doesn’t dissolve. “They’re not arseholes, but they’re… well… a bit like me.”

 

I can feel his smile before I even see it, the feeling of his fingertips brushing my knuckles as his arm lays outstretched between us. “That’s fine,” he reassures gently, “I quite like you, after all.”

 

There’s a silence between us for a minute, my eyes tracing the way his thumb circles around the bottom of mine. It's so irresistibly soft, making my insides churn and melt.

 

While keeping our hands connected, I turn mine over, fingers trailing over the creases of his palm. I trace out the knicks he’s got, the little ridges caused by time. He makes me melt like this; he reminds me that we’re only human.

 

“So what are they like?” he whispers, leaned across the counter on the pure basis of intimacy. “Your friends?”

 

A smile threatens my lips. “Idiots,” is the first word out of my upturned mouth before my eyes meet Simon’s and I let out a chuckle. “Sort of. Dev is a bit of a twit, and Niall’s always got a wad up his arse, but they’re both decent company. Niall’s got a fancy accounting job uptown. He drives a nice car and he’s got a ridiculously fit girlfriend, and that’s coming from  _ me _ . It’s disgusting. I’m glad they’re happy, but I’d never say it to his face. The there’s Dev, who can’t land a date for shit and once told me that he’d snog Niall if they weren’t cousins. That, to which, I had to remind him that we’re cousins, not them.”

 

Our hands rotate together slowly, a matching grin on full display across Simon’s face as laughs. “Suppose he is a bit dim, huh?”

 

“Oh, definitely. Don’t talk too fast to him, he can barely catch up with sitcoms on the telly.” That deserves me a chuckle and a peck on the lips before I hear his feet thump against the ground.

 

Within the half hour, he’s finished breakfast, we’ve showered, and he’s taking his time in the full length mirror to get dressed while simultaneously checking out his angles. I watch from afar, perched on the edge of my bed as my hair drips down my spine and the damp towel rests in a pile on my crotch.

 

We trade glances in the mirror with little smiles as he adjusts his jumper and pushes his thick fingers into the wet spirals of his curls. It makes my stomach lurch.

 

“You know,” I say quietly, occupying my hands with the hemmed edge of my towel. “If we’re talking about meeting people, why haven’t I met your mum yet?”

 

His movements freeze, eyebrows lifting as his mouth holds open. For a few lingering moments, we’re staring at each other through our reflections before he finally turns on his heel. “Did… you  _ want _ to meet my mum? I-I’m not opposed, what’s not what I’m saying! I’m just…” He shifts. “I didn’t want to move you too quickly. Meeting my mum is like accepting fate, or some shit.”

 

A single thread unravels and I loop it around my index. “I’m not opposed.” My words come out quiet, sticking around us and hanging in the air. “I want this to be serious.”

 

Slowly, a smile creeps up on his face. “O-okay, yeah. Brilliant. I’ll phone her and see when she’s free.”

 

I can’t help but smile back; his grin is contagious. “Lovely.”

 

He finishes dressing, lacing his shoes before going over to peck my cheek, promising me that he’ll meet us for dinner before grabbing his coat and heading off.

 

The day drags on relatively uneventfully. Lunch with Fi is mostly just her going on and on tirelessly about Ebb (including details I'd much rather have not listened to, like how she keeps her nails manicured well and really knows what she’s doing with a bra). Afterwards, I stop off into Counting Sheep to drop some food off and for a quick, five minute back room snog. The latter wasn't exactly planned, but the moment I opened the door to Simon’s nose in a classic copy of  _ To Kill A Mockingbird _ , I couldn't help myself but just attack him. It's so ridiculously sexy when he’s educated.

 

Of course, Dev and Niall agreed to dinner, but only after giving me grief. 26 texts worth of “You get good dick, and suddenly, you're a changed man” and “Planning the honeymoon, fucker?”

 

I send off the address to Simon, showing up early for our usual dimly lit castoff booth. When the waiter comes around to ask if I want my usual whiskey, I politely decline in favor of water (I've been cutting down my drinking some).

 

Red glows around me, bathing my skin in a washed out haze of deeper browns and shining maroon hair. Both Dev and Niall show relatively soon after, and for once they're looking more presentable than some barely grown uni boys stuck in their younger days. Sitting alone deserves me a raised brow from Ni and a snarky laugh from Dev.

 

“Ditched you?” Dev jokes, sliding against the wall on his side and waving for a beer. Niall settles next to him, eyes scanning the menu silently.

 

My shoulders wiggle as I shift, nose turning up. “He's closing. That's why we set this later.”

 

“Mhm,” he hums back, flashing me a familiar, familial smile. “So, what do we need to know that you've been a dick and held off on us about?”

 

Wow. Thanks. “He plays himself off as strong, but don't tease him too much. He just wants to like you guys.”

 

Suppose that's the last straw to get Niall to finally add himself into the conversation. “Well look at Mr. Baz Pitch over here, seeking out an adult relationship. Tell me, what real estate have you two been scoping?”

 

“None… okay, waterfront, but-yes. Okay, yes,” I sigh, palms settling against the table. “He's really important, and I can't cock this up. He's much better than those weird little ideologies I had about him. He's real.”

 

“Thank fuck he is, mate,” Dev mumbles, and by the jerk of the table and angry glare shot in Niall's direction seconds later, I can tell he'd kicked him. “Oi, I'm just saying--”

 

“Look, I know I'm shit at romances,” I interject, “but just please, don't judge him yet.”

 

They both exchange glances before shrugging in agreement.

 

By the time they've ordered drinks, Simon's stepping in and waving, making his way over to scoot in beside me. I greet him with a peck on the cheek before giving a waved introduction from him to the both of them.

 

With an order of drinks and food with a brief, barely held conversation (a struggle on Simon’s part), Dev seems to be dragging his eyes towards his phone while Niall just tries to think of conversation. That is, until Simon steals a whisper into my ear. “Can I ask for old stories?”

 

With a hand curled into his, my head nods slowly. “Go on, dear.”

 

And with that, he excitedly bursts into questions. “What was Baz like in high school? Most embarrassing moment? Did he always have a spike up his arse, or did that happen with time? Tell me anything--tell me everything.”

 

They exchange brief glances at each other, Dev’s eyebrow slowly rising before they, in unison, turn to me for an answer. I just nod, my arm draping over Simon’s shoulders. Niall snorts, while Dev cracks his knuckles and starts with a hearty “Shit, where do we even begin here with this fuckin’ trainwreck?”

 

Drinks flow and plates come and go as they take turns settling out a cascade of embarrassment after embarrassment, reenacting some and simply (perhaps overdramatically) describing others. With each story comes a little nudge of Simon’s shoulder into mine as he settles deeper into my skin. By the end of the night, Niall’s absolutely wasted and giving his rendition of me trying to tell him I’m into blokes by telling him he looks sexy in football shorts (deep regret, it inflates his ego too much).

 

“Oi, numpty,” Dev mumbles over his beer, staring at Niall’s phone, “your fuckin’ girl is on the line. She’s rung like three times.”

 

“Fuck her, I’ll just find myself someone like Simon ‘stead,” he slurs, “he’s awful fit, and quite a decent bloke. Good catch, Bazzy.”

 

“Yeah, well, he’s mine,” I retaliate, head wagging as I thread my fingers into his hair, “so piss off.”

 

Looking a bit stunned, Simon looks between us before Niall leans in and whispers to him, “We’re just joking, mate. Welcome to the family.”

 

On the cab ride home, as our sides press together and his index traces patterns on the leg of my trousers, Simon tucks his face into my neck. “They’re nice,” he murmurs, his exhale catching on my skin and making it damp. He slowly moves to a smile, relaxing more into me. “They’re kind of pricks, but nothing too bad.”

 

At first, nothing comes to mind for an answer. He’s right, they are. He’s usually right, when he isn’t idiotically wrong (which, I suppose, is the epitome of the duality of man). Everything feels like it’s rushing to be somewhere, yet stay still all at once. As if our universe isn’t meant to be stabilized, while we want to stay on course. Granted, our relationship is built on the spontaneity of reactions in correlation with long time emotions.

 

So, I take the risk and go for it.

 

“You’re an important part of my life,” I whisper, hand finding his and lacing out fingers together. His palm is moist, and his heartbeat gently thumps against mine. Silently, his head rises up and finds my gaze as he drags his eyes closed. “And they’re basically my family. Niall meant what he said, at the end, even if we’re all a bit smashed.”

 

“Are you saying we’re serious-serious? Or just like… the serious we mentioned this morning?”

 

“Haven’t we always been?”

 

He gives me one of his shrugs. “I mean,” he breathes. “Lifetime, serious?”

 

In the slowly drowning light of rain-coated windows and muddled street lights, I reach my hand out and stroke his cheek. “Simon Salisbury,” I let out, letting my words take charge of my mind and fill into the space between us. “You’re my lifetime.”

 

I mean it when I say it.

 

And he knows that, because he’s leaning up to me and pressing his lips sweetly up to mine. Even as he pulls away, he doesn’t quite pull back. His hand wanders up my chest, resting right over the heart I’d let him break. “I forgot to mention,” he murmurs against my breath, eyes half closed as his voice travels in a hum. “My mum said she’s good for this Saturday, if you’re ready to take that trip up north so soon.”

 

My smile tugs as I let my eyes fall shut. “Anything for you.”

 

And I mean it. When we get home, I start booking the train tickets immediately despite Simon’s protests for me to join him in bed.

 

It feels like the blink of an eye before we’re standing at the platform, Simon’s arm hooked around mine as we glance down the far side of the station. I feel a bit dazed whenever he holds me like this, as if I’m hallucinating the entire scenario. Even as his hand snakes into my pocket, skin meeting skin, I’m hit with the shock of disbelief.

 

He just squeezes my hand and looks at me, making me look back and actually see his smile instead of imagine it. It’s grounding; he’s my rock (no matter how cheesy that is).

 

We stand together, my head resting atop his while we watch the other trains pass. The moment’s cut short by the buzzing of his phone, shocking us both upright. His hand digs into his pocket and pulls out his cell, illuminating to show the lock screen picture of me. He took it a few weeks ago on that foreign film movie date I’d dragged him to. He complained half the time, since he barely speaks a lick of French.

 

“Mum’s gonna meet us there,” he says, shuffling closer and nestling his face up to my skin. His nose buries into my neck, and despite my protests, he grins and stays put. “She still says we don’t have to go home tonight.”

 

“You’re the one who wanted to take the last one back,” I remind gently, lips pressing to his temple. “You have work in the afternoon.”

 

“I’ll call in sick,” he mumbles quieter, scrunched face pressing more into my skin. I shiver.

 

“ _ No, _ you will  _ not _ . Ebb’s working a full shift today, and that’s a dick move of you.”

 

“She’ll understand.” I feel the his smile, lips curving and cheeks crinkling along with them. Trying to nudge him away proves a challenge, so I cave in and settle my hand upon his lower back as he kisses the underside of my neck once.

 

I exhale, head settling on his. “We’re coming home tonight and that’s final.”

 

He pouts playfully. “Fine,” his breath moves up and punctuates his word onto my cheek. He stays put for an extended second, almost definitely deserving us discontent looks from our PDA, but I don’t care anymore. If he wants to kiss me in public, I’ll never be the one to turn him down.

 

The train pulls in not much later and I’m dragged aboard, settling into a spot beside Simon after he steals the window seat.

 

We sit close, hands interlocked and heads resting upon each other's as I hold our tickets at the ready. The train gives a good jostle before starting, carrying us far from the city. It doesn’t take long before Simon’s asleep on my shoulder, mouth hanging open and breath coming out in steady puffs. It’s nothing to complain over, since he’s warm, and comfortable, and oh-so Simon. There’s rarely ever a time when he’s so still and relaxed, and I always take the opportunity to soak in every second.

 

It’s not a long ride, but a nice one. I find myself resting up against him and taking an eyeful of the countryside as it sprawls out in front of us. The thought of a younger Simon running around out there, acting so carefree and unharmed by the world is something I imagine, but let go of quickly. All the possible history is scratched away by the man in my arms; the one with tattered hair and various small-scarring. The one with daddy issues and jagged knuckles and a fear of losing everything he’s got because it’s nearly happened at least five times in his life.

 

I wish I could’ve met him as so carefree, except I worry that it he wasn't the same Simon.

 

Current Simon’s mine; he’ll talk about the past, but move on with the future--our future. I think that’s all the Simon I’ll ever really need.

 

I lose myself in the moment with current Simon, eyes closing and senses focusing on him. He’s warm and smells like the soap I got him last week. His hoodie bunches up on me, and I feel the press of his knee into my leg. It’s enchanting and never fails to draw me in. It’s so unavoidably hypnotizing that when the train screeches to a halt, I startle back into reality.

 

After I give him a gentle nudge and a kiss to his cheek, Simon wakes with droopy eyes and a wrinkled nose. “We there?”

 

“Don’t feel the train moving, do you?” I quip, biteless tone to my voice as I sit up fully, stretching, then stand. He blinks at me blearily as I gather my bag and fix my shirt, only moving to grab my hand when I offer it out to him. He hauls himself up, yawning as I tug him out of the cabin.

 

We stand at the platform for a moment, the crowd of passers by busying the area and not letting us get a good look around us. Once they clear, I hear Simon say “Mum” beside me happily.

 

And there she is. She looks like him, if his face were squished down to look like Emma Bunton. Except she’s got that full head of curly hair, chopped to a bob and filling out towards the sides while it lies flat at the top. She’s got a classic hip-mum vibe; long dress, woolen cardigan around her shoulders, and a big, bulky necklace.

 

She seems like just the sort of person who’d raise a boy like Simon.

 

She smiles, and all I see is his smile on her face as she rushes over and throw her arms around him. She tugs him close, and he responds in like with his arms around her shoulders and head dropped to rest on hers. They whisper back and forth, but the mixture of trains and people is a combination that cancels out any other noise around me. As she pulls back, though, I’m shocked find an unexpectedly similar action thrown onto me--a hug.

 

Ms. Salisbury wraps her arms around my middle, hugging me tightly as she exclaims, now much louder than she was while talking to Simon, “So you must be the boy my son’s been enthusing about!”

 

I blink, carefully hugging her back as I look over at him. He just gives me his usual grin, nodding encouragingly as I bob my head just the same. “I--yes. I’m Baz.”

 

She pulls back at an arm’s-length, hands gripping around my wrists as she smiles fully. “He’s awful proper looking, Si,” she laughs warm heartedly, glancing between him and I as her voice drops. “Quite fit, too.”

 

I feel Simon blush without even looking, seeing his hand reach out and nudge her. “Mum, we’re in public,” he complains as I glance over and see his pink cheeks and shy smile. His mum just laughs and lets go of me, stepping back as her dress sways around her.

 

“Oh don’t overreact. I’m being civil.” Her arms fold as she eyes me up fully, head nodding slowly. “Well, come along. I need to start dinner sometime.”

 

Simon grabs my hand again, tugging me forward as we follow her back to her beat up 90s Pontiac. Our pressed-palms swing together, shoulders nudging and eyes meeting on occasion. As we climb in, she’s starting up the radio and letting it blast the classic hits station. It makes Simon smile without another thought, humming along to  _ It’s Raining Men _ as I buckle in beside him.

 

It’s not a long drive, and it’s filled entirely with a constant back and forth between Simon and his mum while we’re winding down the countryside roads. She talks a bit about her garden, and I catch hint that she has a few barn animals (all four chickens are named after the members of ABBA). Simon chats his usual bit, mentioning work and nudging me into mentioning how the book is going. Most of the talking relies on his mother’s behalf.

 

I can’t complain, though. I’ve never had this whole genuine family experience, and I never thought I’d be able to get it. Hell, even  _ if _ he and I go downhill one day, at least I’ll have this moment to remember.

 

She parks outside of a small cottage, threatening to lock us in the car if we don’t get out that moment. Her teasing smile is just like Simon’s, too.

 

The house smells of baked bread and old books, and it leaves me to wonder whether or not it always like this or if she’s just made it extra home-y for us. By the way Simon relaxes, I’m assuming it’s the former. 

 

“Fuck, it’s good to be home,” he groans, pulling off his hoodie as he steps inside. He’s stopped by his mum, who tuts until he removes his shoes. I follow in suit.

 

“Sorry to say there isn’t much to tour for you,” Ms. Salisbury says with a shrug and a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t got much--kitchen, living room, bathroom, then upstairs is two rooms and another bathroom. Si’s old room is up there though, but he knows the rule.”

 

Simon scoffs, and I take note that he’s clearly blushing while he’s folding his hoodie and tossing it onto the nearby couch. “I’m not 15 mum, I’m not going to try to fool around in there.” With raise of her eyebrows, he immediately shuts up and casts his gaze down to his mismatched socks. “Fine. I’ll keep the door open.”

 

I feel a hand brush against mine, and with a look, I see that he’s trying to guide me upstairs. Compliantly, I follow up, looking at the family pictures lining the staircase as we walk. I spot a good deal of baby pictures of Simon, and the obligatory growing up snapshots as well. Sporting games, birthday parties, school participation, you name it. “Did you do acting?” I ask, spotting a cast photo.

 

He chuckles, hand wrapping tighter around mine. “One play, and I was an understudy. Never really went back, since I’m real shit at talking. Unless they want me to play someone who’s mute, there’s no point in it.”

 

We hit the landing and, within a few steps, I’m inside Simon’s old school years bedroom. The walls are haphazardly lined with footballers posters and various bandp pictures, taken from venues. I spot some tacked up notes and a few cut out drawings from notebooks, mostly graphic little designs. It’s a teenage boy’s room; nothing more, nothing less.

 

“Can’t imagine how much action you got in here,” I joke. “First kiss?”

 

He laughs, letting my hand drop as he strolls over to his bed. “Yeah, and that’s all. You know that.”

 

“I know,” I shrug, voice soft as I scan over his CD collection. “Wasted years then.”

 

Fingertips wrap around my belt loops, yanking me onto the bed. I land with a soft “ _ oof _ ”, hearing Simon burst out into laughter as I shake my head. “What?” I ask, looking at him. He’s got his eyes on me, nearing in tears as he looks at me all odd--somewhat crooked and funny.

 

“You can’t tell me your room didn’t look like this either,” he gestures around, “an ass-slaying cave.”

 

That really makes me laugh, head tossing back and nearly hitting the plaster wall and a poster of an early 2000s David Beckham. “Oh, surely the gargoyles on my bed frame were  _ killer _ with my exes.”

 

“Wait,  _ gargoyles? _ ”

 

I shrug it off nonchalantly. “My room is some posh-shit, and I could never touch it. Too preserved in history, or whatever. Too bad I don’t even go back now; I’d show you, but I think my dad would want my head on a plate first for bringing back a bloke.”

 

Simon shifts us, laying half on top of me with one arm looped around my back. We sit in silence, staring at each other as he slowly reaches out his free hand and brushes the hair from my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes traveling between my lips and my face.

 

“What for?” I whisper back, hands settling onto his chest and feeling the soft fabric of his tee below my palms.

 

He shrugs, chewing on his lip. “Your dad being shit. It’s nice to have some sort of home to go to comfortably, and it sucks that you don’t have one of your own.”

 

I hesitate, eyes stuck onto his face as I raise my hand slowly and settle it upon his cheek. I stroke it, feeling the gentle rise of skin over his mole. “I have you; isn’t that home enough?” His head turns, lips pressing to my palm as his eyes drag shut. I feel myself smile helplessly, focusing entirely on the way his exhale hits my fingertips.

 

“I’m gonna give you a real home one day,” he murmurs against me. “I swear, I will. That’ll be  _ our _ home, then.”

 

I smile hopelessly, looking up at him in a daze. “You’re so sappy,” I feel myself saying, nose scrunching as I grin and feel him close in, scattering kisses about my face. Eventually, we break apart. He smooths my hair back, letting me sit up as he threads his fingertips around in the back of my head.

 

“We should probably go keep my mum company, since we came for her, after all.”

 

I nod, following his lead back down the stairs and to the kitchen table where we take seats beside each other. Across the small room, Ms. Salisbury lifts her head from the dish she’s making (by the looks of it, she’s boiling potatoes for shepherd's pie). “Heard an awful bit of laughing up there. Something tickling at you both?” She’s grinning, glancing between the two of us.

 

I can’t help but drop my head, feeling like a caught schoolboy as I cave backwards and glance towards Simon. He, surprisingly, is snorting along.

 

“Nothing besides that old itchy bed.”

 

“I told you, it’s just the blanket. You could just change it out, but  _ no _ .”

 

In those classics, they say that someone’s eyes sparkle if they’re wise. I didn’t quite think that was possible, except maybe for Ebb, but for Simon’s mum it’s definitely something she’s got up her sleeve. Whenever she smiles at the both of us, I can feel the room light up around her. She’s brilliant.

 

Simon leans back in his seat for a second before the ground scrapes beneath him, his chair dragging while he stands and goes to help. I sit back, afraid to intrude as I watch both of them dance around a bit.

 

It isn’t until the pie’s in the oven that they turn their collective attention back towards me, looking over to where I’m sitting.

 

“Want to show him out back?” She asks, looking up at her son.

 

Looking up is a relative term, given she’s on the taller side, as far as women come. She’s nearly his height.

 

He shrugs then nods, grabbing our shoes and handing me mine as he yanks his old converse back onto his feet. I retie my worn in oxfords before following out the back door, letting the screen hit behind me.

 

The sky’s sinking slowly, washing over the world in a soft orange as we head over to the small barn house and the nearby chicken coup. They cluck loudly as a greeting, sending Simon over to take a glance as we stroll past. Inside the barn, there’s a goat, two sheep, and a cow.

 

I can’t help but glance at Simon in wonder, brows raising. “You never told me you grew up on a  _ farm _ farm.”

 

Of course he shrugs, going to pet the cow happily. “They’re more like pets than livestock. Mum always loved animals and caring for them, and especially now that I’m out of the house.” He turns back towards me, grinning. “You can pet them, it’s fine.”

 

I hesitate, slowly stepping closer before resting my hand onto the cow’s face. She doesn’t push me away, but rather stares at me and sending Simon laughing.

 

“She’s not gonna hurt you, Baz,” he whispers, hand resting on my back. “She’s just an animal.”

 

I pull back, glancing at him. “I’m not  _ afraid, _ just not good with animals,” I mumble, shifting my weight before leaning into him.

 

His lips press to my temple as my head bows. “Want to go back in then?” I nod. “Alright, let’s go back, love.” He takes my hand, leading me step by step back towards the house. I avoid mud puddles, thinking over and over about how I should’ve worn more relaxed shoes.

 

Ms. Salisbury’s settling the table as we’re stepping back inside, kicking off our footwear. She’s humming  _ I Gonna Be _ under her breath, setting cups up as she asks Simon to fill the water pitcher. After a second of my awkward standing, she looks up at me and grins. “You can sit, dear. I won’t bite.”

 

I glance between Simon and his mum, blinking as he laughs at me while I’m carefully taking a seat on the side with my back to the wall. “Sorry, I…”

 

“Don’t apologise,” she says, patting my shoulder. “You just don’t have to stand around looking clueless.” Somehow, this woman is slightly more terrifying than Bunce is in the matter of respect. I feel as though I have to follow what she says or else she’ll take me out back with one of her butcher axes, and I feel like it’d be completely justified.

 

I nod towards her, hands folding on the table as I sit up bullet-straight and watch the two of them somewhat dance together to finish setting up the food. Within minutes, we’re gathered around, Simon beside me and his mum across from us as we serve ourselves. Simon skips the salad, although I’m not surprised, and I thank her while taking a nice serving. It’s a little shocking that a minute or two into the meal, they actually start talking.

 

It feels alien. It feels  _ warm _ . It feels like something I never got a home--a family meal. We’re gathered comfortably while Simon makes jokes about the train ride, followed by laughter and a comfortable pause to chew. Soon enough, she shifts the conversation towards me. “So, Baz, you’re a real writer, huh?”

 

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” I say, nervously shoving a bite of the pie into my mouth following my words.

 

She snorts, picking up her water as she speaks. “Don’t call me ma’am, dear. You can call me mum.” She winks, a kind smile spread across her face as she sips, looking between us. I feel Simon’s hand grab mine under the table, and as we meet gazes, he’s beaming. I exhale for what feels like the first time since we arrived.

 

“Mum,” I say sheepishly, clearing my throat and continuing. “But yes, I write novels, and a bit of poetry. I suppose everything, but I just… write…” Fuck, eager to impress? I can’t recall ever being as nervous as I am now. “I’m an author.”

 

Her eyes crinkle as she grins, sending looks over at Simon as I barely articulate sentences. Once I’m done, they just laugh at each other, sending me into a full defense. “I’m sorry, I’m never quite like this. I like your son  _ very _ much and I--”

 

“It’s fine, darling.” She pats my hand across the table, palm resting on my wrist. Her hands are quite calloused too, yet it seems like from garden work and farming, as opposed to fighting, like her son. “Simon’s told me quite a bit about you, you don’t have to impress me anymore.”

 

I breathe out slowly, meeting her eyes. “Thank you,” I mumble.

 

“You’ve beat out his ex by a long shot, anyway--”

 

“Mum,” Simon cuts, his voice in an exasperated whine. “Agatha wasn’t a nightmare or anything.”

 

“She picked up and left you at a moment’s notice, and her parents always seemed to pity us, especially at Christmas dinners.” She shifts in her seat, spoon twirling in hand.

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” I add, “I doubt you’ll be meeting much of my family, so there isn’t much to have pitied from them.”

 

When she smiles this time, it seems sadder. Her hand slowly rubs over my knuckles. “Well, guess we’ll just have to have you come with Si for the holidays, then,” she says softly.

 

I nod, taking another bite and swallowing. I’ll be coming back--she wants me back.

 

A glance at Simon and I know. I know how we’ll be, how this will be. He squeezes my hand like there’s no turning back, but I think we both know that I never want to go anywhere but onwards with him.

 

As we leave for the night, sitting on the train back to the city, his hand rests against mine in the darkness of the dimmed-light cabin. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, taking a deep breath. He makes me smile whenever he does that; it’s so simply sweet that it makes my cheeks ache.

 

“I think I love you,” I murmur, watching his head rattle along with the movements of the train car. Slowly, his eyes fall shut, smile sticking as his hand curls tighter around mine.

 

“I think I love you too,” he whispers back.

 

His face lingers in the forefronts of my mind, plastered there like the front door to my brain.

 

Even as months start passing--a blur of writing and editing and publishing and cover designs and page setup choices--of the nightmares that is adult living, my thoughts remain consistent. I love him as my rising sun, and my burning daylight. He’s my motivation, still, as I frantically throw together pages after pages of stories of me and him in a world we’ve never touched. He’s the glue to my manic episodes, telling me to run to the edge of England and dive into the water, swim to somewhere new. He runs his hands into my hair, calls me rosebud, and tells me a story.

 

He’s not the best at stories. I love them endlessly, nonetheless.

 

I love them because, even with countless flaws and cliché plots, they’re what come from his mind and his heart.

 

As the book draws closer to a release, I’m stuck on a dedication.

 

I can’t quite propose with a book dedication (or can I?) (No, I cannot). I can’t say a quick “to evry1 who helped me, thx, to evry1 else, fuck off m8”. It’s wrong to  _ not _ dedicate it to him, because that’s who this is for. It was never really for anyone else, in my mind, but rather for myself.

 

For him. For Counting Sheep. For the chats that Bunce and I exchange over old trade systems and the bizzarities of European conquerors at three in the morning. For Fiona and Ebb.  _ Especially _ for Ebb, who deserves to see herself as a true hero.

 

For the dragons Simon’s slayed for such a small audience, and for my own embarrassing past to be seen as natural and oh-so teenage.

 

It’s a love note. It’s a fucking disastrous love note at that, but if I wrapped it up and tied it in a bow, Simon would tut over it not being turned over to the world.

 

So, I write it. Three little words that settle at the beginning of the pages, waiting for Simon to unfold them and read them aloud to the world.

 

When the prints come after countless days roll past, we all gather in the shop. Ebb shuts down early for a day, we rearrange some tables, and rest the single, cardboard packing box in the centre of our attention.

 

All seven of us gather (Ebb, Fi, Dev, Niall, Bunce, Simon, and I), taking seats and cracking bottles of cheap champagne, spending six hours crowded around a folding table and laughing with each other.

 

Midnight. That’s when we open it. That’s when online shops release it, and that’s when the world gets to crack open the spines and see the intimacy of everything in me.

 

Midnight is when Simon gets to see.

 

We pick at the Chinese take out, my head spinning as, for the third time in the past ten minutes, I check the main clock.

 

“Hey,” Simon whispers, catching my hand and squeezing it in a quick burst. “You keep checking it.”

 

“I’m just antsy, that’s all.” This clock is moving painstakingly slowly. Is it always like that? Is it even on time?

 

“No, it isn’t. Come on, talk to me.”

 

He knows me too well. Fucking hell, a year together and he’s got me down like a fucking map, and he’s found the buried treasure long ago. “I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s taken so long, and it’s something I care about, so of course I don’t want to cock this up.”

 

“Cock what up?” he laughs, eyes going soft as he swiftly raises my hand to his lips, grazing a kiss to my knuckles. “As long as you’re happy with what you wrote, then that’s what matters. Plus, critics loved it. You can’t deny that.”

 

With a sucked in breath and a dizzying head, I lower my gaze to the mole near his chin. “It’s too personal. Maybe it was a mistake.”

 

“You don’t make mistakes,” he whispers, “you’re T.B. Pitch, after all.”

 

“Fuck off,” I breathe lovingly, sticking my nose up to him before stealing a quick peck. Smiling all dizzily, we go back to the discussion of the group as our hands stay locked together.

 

He gives quite a strong pep talk. Especially since it’s knocked me out of my trance so hard that once midnight actually rolls around, I feel caught off guard.

 

Fi takes out a pocket knife, slitting the tape and pulling the first copy out. “Shit, Baz,” she laughs. “Self-obsessed much? Got yourself on the cover.”

 

“Fuck off, they’re character outlines,” I grumble, picking one up. “Their names are all switched around too, except Simon’s.”

 

“Awh, babe,” he jokes, grinning at me as he grabs out a copy.

 

There’s a soft murmur that covers the room as we page through the fresh copies, some chatter between us all.

 

It takes a few moments before I feel Simon’s elbow hitting me. When I turn to him, he’s got tears in his eyes and a finger pointed right at the dedication page. Before I can even choke out an explanation, he’s got me in his arms and he’s snogging me breathless. I hear his copy slowly fall out of his lap and hit the ground below us.

 

_ For my Simon. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it. the final part. the little wave and bow. i know i got all sappy at the beginning, but i want to wrap it up nice and pretty here.
> 
> first and foremost, thank you to everyone who sat through and read this. this is all for you guys, and i'm more than grateful to have every single one of you who even picked this up to read. i know it's relatively long--110 pages on my google doc, which made me smile each time i saw it because hey, i did that. so thank you for reading all of my ramblings.
> 
> my second and last thanks goes to my friends who heard me rant nonstop about this since about october when i started writing. i especially want to thank andrea once again for being my beta. i know she wanted to choke me every time i put in a semicolon and had to edit shit i wrote poorly at 3am, so she's the real MVP here.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're interested, here's the playlist!: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cAo2su5aA90eXwO5dBg7a
> 
> it correlates to the story (except tainted love. yeah. i didn't know where to put that, but it felt needed), so it goes in a specific order. it's just a funky little flow along--not required for the fic, but feel free to listen.


End file.
